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."

The scream died in her throat before it could wake the house.

Kaycee sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air. Her skin was clammy with cold sweat. The nightmare clung to her like a second skin-the needle, the basement, the fire.

She checked the time on the bedside clock. 5:30 AM.

The room was bathed in the gray light of pre-dawn. She was safe. She was in Hunter's bed.

But the silence was terrifying. She needed to hear life.

She slid out of bed, her bare feet sinking into the carpet. She crept out into the hallway. The house was still.

She went downstairs, drawn by a faint sound from the kitchen. A rhythmic chop, chop, chop.

She peeked around the corner.

Hunter was there.

He was wearing gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a tight white t-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders. And over it, ridiculously, was a dark blue apron.

He was standing at the island, chopping scallions with exact, focused movements. A pan sizzled on the stove behind him. The smell of bacon and coffee filled the air, chasing away the scent of blood from her nightmare.

Kaycee leaned against the doorframe, watching him. It was such a domestic scene, so normal, so... peaceful. It made her chest ache.

Hunter paused, the knife hovering over the cutting board. He didn't turn around.

"You're staring," he said. His voice was rough with sleep.

"I didn't know you cooked," Kaycee said.

He turned then. He looked her over, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on her bare legs before snapping back to her face.

"There's a lot you don't know about me," he said. "Put some shoes on. The floor is heated, but still."

"I like being barefoot," she said, walking over to the island.

She hopped up onto one of the barstools. "What are you making?"

"Omelets. Unless you want that green juice sludge you usually drink."

"Omelet is fine. With bacon."

Hunter raised an eyebrow. "You hate bacon. You say it's 'grease trapped in sadness'."

Kaycee laughed. It was a genuine, bubbling sound. "I changed my mind. Bacon is joy."

Hunter watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned back to the stove.

"Coffee is in the pot," he said.

Kaycee poured herself a mug. She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into her palms.

She watched his back muscles move as he flipped the omelets.

"Did you sleep?" she asked.

"No."

"Me neither."

He plated the food and slid a plate in front of her. The omelet was perfect, golden and fluffy. The bacon was crisp.

He didn't sit. He leaned against the counter opposite her, crossing his arms. He didn't have a plate.

"Eat," he said. "Then we need to talk."

Kaycee picked up a fork. She took a bite. It was delicious.

"Talk about what?" she asked with her mouth full.

"About how much you need."

Kaycee stopped chewing. She swallowed slowly.

"I told you-"

"Save it," Hunter interrupted. "I did the math. Aldo's hedge fund is down forty percent. He needs liquidity. You're here because he sent you to soften me up before he asks for a bailout."

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a checkbook. He grabbed a pen from the counter.

Scratch. Scratch. Rip.

He slid a piece of paper across the marble island.

"Twenty million," he said flatly. "That should cover his margin calls and buy you a new wardrobe. Take it. And go."

Kaycee looked at the check. The zeros were perfectly formed. His signature was sharp and aggressive.

Twenty million dollars.

In her past life, she would have taken it. She would have thrown a fit about how it wasn't enough, but she would have taken it.

She put down her fork.