The valet at Le Bernadin barely had time to react as the pink Lamborghini pulled up to the curb with sharp efficiency.

Kaycee threw the door open and tossed the keys at the stunned young man. "Keep it running."

She didn't wait for a ticket. She pushed through the revolving doors, ignoring the indignant looks from the hostess stand. Her black dress swished around her ankles as she marched into the dining room.

It was quiet, the air filled with the murmur of polite conversation and the clinking of silverware.

She scanned the room. Table 12. Hunter's usual table. It was in the corner, secluded, private.

It was empty.

Kaycee felt her stomach drop. She rushed over to the Maitre D', a tall man with a stiff upper lip named Jean-Pierre.

"Mr. Gallagher," she demanded, her breath coming in short bursts. "Where is he?"

Jean-Pierre looked down his nose at her, though his expression faltered slightly when he recognized her. "Miss Serrano. Mr. Gallagher left approximately five minutes ago."

"Left?" Kaycee gripped the edge of the podium. "But the reservation was for seven."

"Mr. Gallagher arrived at six-thirty," Jean-Pierre said coolly. "He waited for thirty minutes. When he received... a message... he paid the bill and departed."

A message.

Corrine.

Kaycee closed her eyes, cursing silently. Corrine must have texted him from a burner phone, or maybe even spoofed Kaycee's number, telling him she wasn't coming.

"Did he say where he was going?"

"I do not pry into the affairs of our guests, Miss Serrano."

Kaycee spun around, her mind racing. Think. Where would he go?

In her past life, Corrine had told her later that night, laughing over margaritas, that Hunter had gone to The Obsidian Club to drown his sorrows. Kaycee had believed her.

But wait.

She replayed the memory. Corrine had said, "I saw his car heading downtown towards the club."

But later, months later, Hunter had mentioned in passing-during one of the few times they spoke civilly-that he hated The Obsidian Club. He called it a "pretentious meat market."

He wouldn't go there when he was hurt. He would go to ground. He would go to the one place where no one could bother him.

The Fortress. His private villa in the hills of Cold Spring.

Her phone buzzed in her clutch. She pulled it out.

Corrine: "Where are you?? The shots are getting warm!"

Kaycee stared at the screen. She typed back quickly.

Kaycee: "Change of plans. Not feeling well. Going home to sleep."

She turned to leave and nearly collided with a woman entering the restaurant.

"Kaycee!"

Kaycee froze. It was Corrine.

She was wearing a silver sequined dress that barely covered her thighs, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed. She looked like a million dollars, and every cent was paid for by the betrayal of her best friend.

"I thought you were sick?" Corrine asked, her eyes narrowing as she looked Kaycee up and down. "And why are you dressed like you're going to a funeral? So morbid."

Kaycee forced the muscles in her face to relax. Before she stepped out of the car, she had taken a moment, practicing the vapid, pouty expression she used to wear. It was a mask, and she needed to put it on perfectly. She forced that pout onto her lips now.

"I am sick," Kaycee lied smoothly. "I came to tell Hunter off in person, but he was already gone. Can you believe the nerve?"

Corrine's face relaxed into a smirk. "He left? Good. He probably realized he's out of his league. Come on, let's go to the club. Aldo is meeting us there."

She reached out to link her arm with Kaycee's.

Kaycee felt a wave of revulsion so strong it nearly made her shudder. She pulled her arm back, pretending to adjust her clutch.

"I can't, Corrine. My head is splitting. I'm just going to go home and crash."

Corrine studied her for a moment, looking for cracks in the facade. "You're acting weird. Did something happen?"

"Just a headache," Kaycee said, stepping around her. "Have a drink for me."

"Wait," Corrine called out. "Did you see which way Hunter went? I wanted to... you know, make sure he didn't do anything stupid."

Kaycee turned back. "The Maitre D' said he headed west."

West. Towards the highway. Towards Cold Spring.

Corrine's eyes flickered. "West? Weird. I could have sworn I saw his driver heading downtown."

There it was. The lie. Corrine knew exactly where he wasn't going.

"Maybe I heard wrong," Kaycee shrugged. "Anyway, bye."

She hurried out to the valet, her heart pounding. She had to get to the villa.

She jumped back into the Lamborghini.

"Cold Spring," she muttered to herself. "Don't fail me now."

She drove decisively, the city lights blurring into streaks of neon. As she left the city limits and hit the winding roads leading up into the hills, the air grew darker, heavier.

She had never been to The Fortress. Hunter had invited her once, shortly after their engagement was announced. She had laughed in his face and told him she didn't do "rustic."

She remembered the hurt in his eyes. It was a subtle thing, a tightening of the corners of his mouth. She hadn't cared then.

Now, the memory cut her like a knife.

She reached the heavy iron gates of the estate thirty minutes later. The house sat on a cliff, overlooking the Hudson River. It was dark, brooding, made of stone and glass.

The gate was closed. A keypad glowed red on the stone pillar.

Kaycee rolled down the window. She stared at the numbers.

She didn't know the code.

She panicked for a second. Then, a memory surfaced. A drunk Hunter, mumbling something about "the day the stars fell."

May 20th. Her birthday. The day they met as children. And, in another life, the day he died for her. The date was a brand on her soul.

It was too simple. Too sentimental for the cold, ruthless CEO everyone thought he was.

But Hunter wasn't cold. He was just... guarded.

She punched in the numbers.

0 - 5 - 2 - 0.

The keypad beeped green. The heavy iron gates groaned and swung inward.

Kaycee let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Tears pricked her eyes again.

He used her birthday. He used the day they met.

She drove up the winding driveway, the gravel crunching under the tires. The house loomed ahead, dark except for a single light on the ground floor.

The study.

Kaycee parked the car away from the front entrance, killing the engine. The silence of the woods was immediate and oppressive.

She stepped out, the gravel biting into the thin soles of her shoes. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth.

She walked towards the light. The study had floor-to-ceiling windows. Through the glass, she could see him.

Hunter was sitting in a leather armchair, his back to the window. A glass of amber liquid sat on the table beside him. His jacket was gone, his tie loosened, the top buttons of his white shirt undone.

He looked exhausted. Even from behind, the slump of his shoulders spoke of a bone-deep weariness.

Kaycee walked to the side door. She tried the handle. Locked.

She moved to the window. Hunter had a habit of leaving the latch undone on the window facing the river; he liked the sound of the water. It wasn't a flaw in the lock, but a crack in his armor-a small vulnerability she knew only because she knew the man inside.

She slid her fingers under the sash and lifted. It yielded to her touch, sliding open with a soft exhale.

She stepped inside.

The room smelled of cedarwood, old paper, and expensive scotch. It was a masculine scent, comforting and terrifying all at once.

Her bare feet made no sound on the Persian rug. She crept closer.

Hunter didn't move. He swirled the liquid in his glass, staring at the wall.

"I should just let them have it," he muttered to himself. His voice was low, rough like gravel. "Let them take the trust fund. Maybe then she'll be happy."

Kaycee froze. He was talking about her. He was thinking about giving up his leverage, giving up the only thing that kept Aldo from draining her accounts dry, just to make her happy.

A sob caught in her throat. She choked it back, but the sound escaped-a tiny, wounded noise.

Hunter spun around in his chair. His reflexes were cat-like. In a split second, he was on his feet, the glass set down, his body angled for defense.

When he saw her, the aggression didn't leave his face. It morphed into confusion, then suspicion.

"Kaycee?"

He said her name like it was a question in a foreign language.

She stood there, shivering slightly in her black dress, her hands clutching her purse.

"Hi," she whispered.

Hunter's eyes narrowed. He scanned the room behind her, looking for accomplices. Looking for Aldo.

"How did you get in?" His voice was ice. "Did you bribe the security company? Or did you just guess?"

"I knew the code," she said.

He flinched. Just a tiny twitch of his eye, but she saw it. He knew she knew.

"What do you want?" He crossed his arms over his chest, creating a barrier. "If you're here to tell me what a disappointment I am for leaving the restaurant, save it. I got your text."

"I didn't send a text," Kaycee said, taking a step forward.

"Don't lie to me." He stepped back, maintaining the distance. "I saw it. 'Don't bother waiting. I have better things to do.'"

Kaycee felt a surge of anger towards Corrine. "That wasn't me. Corrine had my phone. Or she spoofed it."

Hunter let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "Right. Because Corrine is the villain and you're just the innocent victim. Is that the narrative today?"

"Hunter, please."

She took another step. She was close enough now to see the dark circles under his eyes, the stubble on his jaw.

"Why are you here, Kaycee?" He sounded tired now. "Do you need money? Did Aldo max out the credit cards again? Just tell me the number. I'll write the check. Just... leave."

The dismissal hurt more than his anger. He expected her to be a leech. Because that's all she had shown him.

She dropped her purse on the floor.

"I don't want your money," she said firmly.

She closed the distance between them. Before he could retreat further, she threw her arms around his waist and buried her face in his chest.

Hunter went rigid. His arms hovered in the air, unsure, afraid to touch her. He stood like a statue, his breath hitching in his chest.

"I'm here for you," she mumbled into his shirt. The cotton was warm and smelled of him. It was the best smell in the world.

"Kaycee..." His voice wavered. "Stop. Is this a game? Is Aldo recording this?"

She shook her head against his chest, tightening her grip. "No games. No Aldo. Just me."

She felt his heart beating against her cheek. It was racing. Fast. Erratic.

"Why?" he asked, the word stripped of all defenses.

"Because I almost lost you," she whispered, the truth slipping out before she could stop it. "Because I was blind. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Hunter's hands slowly, hesitantly, came down to rest on her shoulders. He didn't push her away. But he didn't hug her back. He held her there, suspended in his hesitation.

Hunter gripped her shoulders and physically peeled her off him.

It wasn't gentle. His fingers dug into her skin, creating space, creating air between them. He looked at her with wild, frantic eyes.

"Stop it," he hissed. "Just stop."

He turned his back to her, running a hand through his hair. He walked to the desk, putting the heavy mahogany between them.

"You don't get to do this," he said, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. "You don't get to storm in here, break into my house, and hug me like you... like you care. It's cruel, Kaycee. Even for you."

"I'm not being cruel," Kaycee pleaded, leaning over the desk. "I'm trying to fix this."

"Fix what?" He slammed his hand on the desk. "There is nothing to fix! You hate me. You've made that abundantly clear for the last three years. You think I'm boring, controlling, and 'emotionally constipated,' I believe was the term."

Kaycee winced. She had said that. At a gala. In front of his mother.

"I was wrong," she said. "I was stupid and I was wrong."

Hunter stared at her. He looked like a man trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. He looked at her dress-the simple black silk, not the flashy distraction she usually wore. He looked at her face-clean, bare, vulnerable.

"Who put you up to this?" he asked quietly. "Is it your father? Is he threatening to cut you off if you don't marry me?"

"No one put me up to this."

She walked around the desk. Hunter moved back until he hit the bookshelf. He was trapped.

"I'm staying," she said. "I'm not leaving tonight."

Hunter's eyes widened. "You can't stay here."

"Why not? We're engaged. It's not improper."

"It's not about propriety!" He laughed, a desperate sound. "It's about my sanity, Kaycee! I can't... I can't have you in this house, smelling like that, looking like that, and pretending to want me. It will kill me."

The raw honesty of his words took her breath away. He loved her so much it hurt him physically.

"I'm not pretending," she said softly. She reached out and took his hand. His fingers were cold.

"Hunt," she said.

His whole body shuddered. She hadn't called him that since they were teenagers.

He looked down at their joined hands. He didn't pull away this time. He looked defeated.

"If you stay," he said hoarsely, "you stay in the guest room. And you lock the door. Because I don't trust myself. And I certainly don't trust you."

"I'll sleep in the master bedroom," she countered.

"No."

"Yes. It's the only bed with the silk sheets I like."

Hunter closed his eyes. "Fine. Take the master. I'll take the guest room."

He pulled his hand away from hers as if he'd been burned.

"I need a shower," he muttered. "A cold one."

He brushed past her, walking fast, putting as much distance between them as possible.

Kaycee watched him go. She heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs, then the slam of a door down the hall.

She let out a long, shaky breath and leaned against the bookshelf. Her legs felt like jelly.

She had survived the first encounter. He hadn't thrown her out.

She walked up the grand staircase, trailing her hand along the banister. She found the master bedroom easily. It was stark, masculine, decorated in shades of gray and navy. But the bed was huge.

She crawled into it, burying her face in the pillow. It smelled of him. Cedar and rain.

Down the hall, she heard the pipes groan as the shower turned on. She imagined him standing under the freezing water, trying to wash away the confusion she had brought into his life.

"I'm going to make it up to you, Hunt," she whispered into the darkness. "I promise."