Harrison Knowles placed a warm hand on his daughter's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He was practically glowing, proud to show off his only heir.

"Annalise, there's someone I want you to meet," he said, his voice booming with good cheer. "A young man who has been making quite a name for himself."

Annalise turned, her polite smile fixed in place. "Of course, Daddy."

She followed her father's gaze to the man sitting across the table. He stood up as they approached, unfolding to his full height.

He was tall, with broad shoulders that filled out his custom tuxedo perfectly. His hair was dark, pushed back from a face that was all sharp angles and hard lines. But it was his eyes that stopped her in her tracks. They were a deep, unsettling blue, like the ocean during a storm.

"Annalise, this is Angelo Molina," Harrison announced, his tone carrying a heavy weight of expectation.

The name struck her like a heavy blow. Angelo Molina. In her past life, he was the cold and distant fiancé her father had forced upon her. A man who treated marriage as a business transaction, devoid of warmth, interest, and emotion.

But as she looked at him now, something flickered in those dark blue eyes. It was there and gone in a flash, so fast she almost missed it. A tightening around his pupils, a brief tremor in his jaw.

He extended his hand. "Happy birthday, Annalise."

His voice was low, a rough rumble that vibrated in the air between them.

Annalise hesitated for a fraction of a second. In the past, she had recoiled from this man, seeing him as a jailer. But now, she saw something else. A weapon.

She reached out and slid her palm against his. His skin was warm, his grip firm.

The moment their hands touched, his fingers tightened around hers. It wasn't painful, but it was insistent. Like he was trying to make sure she was solid, that she wouldn't disappear.

Annalise looked up, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Thank you, Mr. Molina."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Angelo. Call me Angelo."

Harrison chuckled, slapping Angelo on the back. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted."

Annalise pulled her hand back, her mind racing. She needed a shield, someone powerful enough to keep Greggory at bay. Angelo Molina was a fortress. If she played her cards right, she could use his reputation to protect herself while she dismantled her enemies.

Angelo stood perfectly still, his gaze tracking her every micro-expression. Then, his focus dropped. It lingered on her feet, visible beneath the hem of her dress.

The skin around her ankle was red, rubbed raw by the stiff leather of her new heels. A small, angry blister was forming on the side of her heel.

Angelo's brow furrowed. The lines on his face deepened, and for a second, the cold businessman looked almost... pained.

He didn't say a word. He just shifted his weight, taking a half-step forward and moving his body slightly to the left. It was a subtle move, but his tall frame effectively blocked the line of sight from the densest part of the crowd in the center of the room, creating a small visual blind spot for her feet, and more importantly, it blocked the path of anyone trying to walk too close to her.

Annalise blinked, surprised by the instinctive, protective gesture. It was a small thing, but it was a shield she hadn't asked for.

Across the room, Greggory's face was a thundercloud. He watched the tall, dark figure of Angelo Molina stand so close to his fiancée, and his hands curled into fists at his sides.

Alta stood beside him, her face pale. Her fingers dug into her palms, her knuckles white. "Who does she think she is?" she hissed through a fake smile.

Annalise caught their reactions out of the corner of her eye. A cold satisfaction settled in her chest.

She picked up her champagne flute and turned to Angelo, raising it slightly in his direction. The gesture was intimate, a clear signal to the watching crowd.

"To new beginnings," she said, her voice clear enough to carry.

Angelo lifted his own glass, his eyes never leaving hers. "To new beginnings."

He took a sip, but his gaze was heavy, probing. It felt like he was looking right through the carefully constructed armor she had put on, straight into the rage that fueled her.

The intensity made her uncomfortable. She wasn't used to being seen. She quickly looked away, breaking the eye contact.

"My feet are killing me," she lied smoothly, using it as an excuse. "I need to sit for a moment."

Angelo didn't miss a beat. He reached out, his hand hovering at the small of her back without actually touching her, guiding her toward a quieter alcove away from the main floor.

Harrison gave her an approving nod as they walked away.

The alcove was dimly lit, the noise of the party fading to a dull roar. Angelo's hand finally settled on her waist, his thumb pressing gently through the silk of her dress.

Annalise's pulse skipped. The scent of him filled the small space-clean cedar and something darker, something that smelled like a warning.

She looked up at him, her breath catching in her throat. This man wasn't just a cold businessman. There was something else there, something sharp and dangerous lurking beneath the surface.

She had allied herself with a predator. And she wasn't entirely sure he wasn't the most dangerous one in the room.

Annalise shifted her weight, trying to relieve the pressure on her heel. The movement was small, barely a flinch, but the sharp sting of the blister made her wince.

Angelo's gaze dropped instantly. He didn't just glance; he locked onto her foot like a hawk spotting prey.

Before she could blink, he went down on one knee.

The gesture was so sudden, so out of place for a man of his stature, that the nearest guests stopped talking. Heads turned, eyes widening at the sight of the ruthless Angelo Molina kneeling at the feet of the Knowles heiress.

Annalise's heart slammed against her ribs. Panic flared, hot and immediate. She jerked her foot back. "Mr. Molina!"

He looked up, his blue eyes pinning her in place. The command in them was absolute. "You need to change your shoes."

It wasn't a suggestion. It was a statement of fact, delivered in that low, gravelly voice that brokered no argument.

Annalise froze. The only man who had ever paid attention to her feet was Greggory, and that was only to complain that she was walking too slow, that she was embarrassing him by lagging behind. He had never offered to help. He had never cared.

A strange, complicated emotion twisted in her chest, but she crushed it immediately. Sentiment was a liability.

"I'm fine," she said, forcing a bright, dismissive smile. She tried to pull her foot away again, but his hand was firm on her ankle.

Without breaking eye contact, Angelo simply raised a hand, making a subtle, almost imperceptible gesture toward the far side of the room. Less than thirty seconds later, a staff member materialized at his elbow, proffering a small silver tray holding a sterile bandage and an antiseptic wipe. Angelo took the items with a dismissive nod, sending the waiter away. Annalise stared at the tray. He could summon medical supplies with a flick of his wrist? It was a quiet display of absolute control, so completely in character for the icy titan of industry, that her brain short-circuited for a different reason. He tore the paper open with his teeth, his movements efficient and practiced. He peeled the backing off and, with a gentleness that contradicted his hard exterior, pressed the adhesive over the raw skin of her heel.

His thumb brushed against her ankle as he smoothed the edges down. A jolt of electricity shot up her leg, making her breath hitch.

"This won't help much," he muttered, his voice rough with frustration. He stood up, his large frame once again blocking out the light. "I'll have someone bring you flats. Wait here."

He turned, ready to signal a staff member, but Annalise's hand shot out.

Her fingers grabbed the sleeve of his jacket, gripping the expensive fabric tight.

Angelo stopped. He looked down at her hand, then back up at her face. The hard lines of his face softened, just for a moment, a flicker of something warm in his eyes.

Annalise realized what she had done. She was touching him. Willingly. She snatched her hand back as if she'd been burned, smoothing her expression into one of cool indifference.

"I mean, I can't leave the party now," she said quickly, scrambling for an excuse. She couldn't change her shoes. She needed the height. She needed the power that came from looking down on her targets.

She glanced toward the champagne tower, the glass glittering like a promise. "I have something important to do."

Her voice hardened, the softness evaporating. It was the voice of a woman on a mission.

Angelo followed her gaze. He looked at the tower, then back at her. He didn't ask questions. He didn't demand an explanation. The corner of his mouth curved up in a faint, almost imperceptible smile. It was a look of pure, unadulterated indulgence.

"As you wish," he said.

He took a step back, restoring the proper distance between them. But he didn't walk away. He stayed right by her side, a silent, immovable sentinel.

Annalise let out a slow breath. She slipped her foot back into the heel. The blister still throbbed, but the bandage provided a slight buffer. It was a tiny piece of protection in a room full of enemies.

She straightened her spine, her shoulders squaring. The pain was a reminder. It kept her focused.

She looked up. Alta was weaving her way through the crowd, a fake smile plastered on her face, heading straight for them.

The hunter's light flickered in Annalise's eyes. The trap was about to spring.

Alta walked toward them, her white dress swishing with every step. She was playing the part perfectly-the concerned, sweet younger sister. She stopped a few feet away, her eyes darting to Angelo before settling on Annalise.

"Anna, your ankle..." she started, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "I saw you wince. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Alta," Annalise cut her off, her voice sharp and cold. She didn't look at her sister like a sibling; she looked at her like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

Greggory appeared right behind Alta, his face flushed. He took a step forward, trying to insert himself into the conversation. "Annalise, we need to talk. This is ridiculous."

Annalise didn't even grant him a glance. She simply turned her back on him, her focus entirely on Alta.

She walked over to the massive champagne tower. The glass structure reached up toward the ceiling, a pyramid of crystal flutes. At the very top, resting on a special cradle, sat a bottle of vintage Dom Pérignon. It was an antique, worth more than most cars, and it was notoriously difficult to reach.

Annalise pointed a manicured finger at the top of the tower.

"I want that one," she said.

Alta blinked, her smile faltering. "What?"

"The antique one. On the top." Annalise spoke slowly, as if explaining something to a child. "Get it for me."

The nearby guests had gone quiet, sensing the shift in the air. This wasn't a request; it was a command.

Alta's face flushed red. She looked around at the watching crowd, then back at Annalise. "Anna, that's too high. I can't reach it. Why don't you ask the staff-"

"Are you defying me?" Annalise asked, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. She crossed her arms over her chest, the rubies at her throat catching the light. She wasn't asking as a sister. She was ordering as the heiress of the Knowles empire.

Greggory stepped in, trying to smooth things over. He forced a laugh. "I can get it for you, sweetheart. It's no trouble."

Annalise finally looked at him. The disgust in her eyes was barely concealed. "I didn't ask you. I asked my sister."

She put a heavy, sarcastic emphasis on the last word. The implication was clear: know your place.

Alta's lower lip trembled. She looked like she was about to cry, the perfect picture of the victim. But Annalise felt no pity. All she could see was the woman who had cut her brake lines. All she could hear was the sound of her mother's name being dragged through the mud.

"Well?" Annalise tapped her foot impatiently. "We're waiting."

The whispers started. The guests were eating it up. The Knowles heiress was putting the interloper in her place.

Alta was trapped. If she refused, she would look defiant and ungrateful in front of the city's elite. If she accepted, she would look like a servant. She shot a desperate, pleading look at Greggory.

But Greggory was too busy trying to figure out Annalise's angle. He still thought this was a game. He thought she was acting out because she was jealous, and that if he just let her get it out of her system, she would fall into his arms.

He gave Alta a subtle nod. Just do it.

Angelo stood a few paces back, his hands in his pockets. He watched the scene unfold with a faint smirk on his face. He didn't interfere. He just watched Annalise work, looking like a man admiring a masterpiece.

Alta took a shaky breath. She smoothed down her white dress and walked toward the tower, her head held high, trying to salvage some dignity.

She looked up at the top of the pyramid, her jaw clenching. It was at least eight feet off the ground.

Annalise watched her, her face a mask of indifference. She caught the eye of the head butler, Arthur, who was standing near the wall.

She gave him a look. A specific, deliberate look.

Arthur understood immediately. He disappeared through a side door, returning moments later with a small, polished mahogany stepping stool, usually reserved for reaching the highest shelves in the estate library. It was elegant, but clearly too short and precarious for the towering champagne pyramid.

He set it up right next to the champagne tower, the wooden legs scraping against the marble floor.

Alta stared at the stool, her face pale. This was it. The execution was about to begin.