Felicity's eyes snapped open.

She gasped violently, her lungs expanding as if she had just breached the surface of the ocean. She shot up from the sofa.

She coughed, hacking as if the thick black smoke of the Bel Air fire was still trapped in her throat. Her hands gripped the soft velvet cushions beneath her.

She blinked rapidly, the blinding reflection of a vanity mirror stinging her eyes.

She was sitting in a luxurious, brightly lit VIP dressing room.

There was no smell of gasoline. No blood. Just the heavy, expensive scent of Tom Ford Black Orchid perfume.

Her hands shook violently as she grabbed the smartphone resting on the makeup counter. She failed the fingerprint unlock three times before typing in her passcode.

The date on the screen glared back at her.

Four years ago.

A high-pitched ringing echoed in her ears. She looked down at her body. She was wearing the custom midnight-blue, star-gradient gown.

The dress she wore the night she won the Academy Award for Best Actress.

The memories of freezing to death in Aspen and watching Collins burn alive crashed into her brain. Her blood turned to ice, then instantly boiled into pure, unadulterated rage.

She was back.

The brass doorknob clicked. The door swung open.

Brandt walked in, wearing a perfectly tailored tuxedo, a sickeningly handsome, fake smile plastered across his face.

Brinley trailed right behind him, dressed in an innocent white tulle gown, holding a glass of warm water.

"Ten minutes to showtime, Felicity," Brinley said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.

Seeing their faces, Felicity's stomach violently convulsed. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ground together.

Brandt stepped forward, opening his arms to hug her. "You look stunning, babe. Ready to take home the gold?"

As his hands reached for her waist, Felicity violently twisted her body sideways.

Brandt's hands grasped empty air. He stumbled slightly, his smile dropping into a frown of annoyance.

Brinley immediately stepped up, reaching out to grab Felicity's forearm. "Felicity? Are you okay? You look pale."

Felicity didn't think. Her body reacted on pure instinct.

She swung her arm and shoved Brinley backward with terrifying force.

Brinley shrieked as her stilettos twisted. She stumbled backward and slammed hard into the wooden doorframe.

Tears instantly pooled in Brinley's eyes. She looked at Brandt, her lip trembling. "Brandt... I was just trying to help."

Brandt's face flushed with anger. He stepped between them, glaring at Felicity. "What the hell is wrong with you? Stop acting like a diva backstage!"

Felicity let out a dark, humorless laugh. She stepped forward, her heels sinking into the carpet.

She grabbed the lapels of Brandt's custom tuxedo, her knuckles turning white. She yanked him down to her eye level.

"We are done," she spat, her voice a low, lethal whisper.

Brandt blinked, stunned for a second, before a mocking smirk crawled onto his face. He lowered his voice. "Is this about the new contract? Fine, I'll give you a higher cut. Stop throwing a tantrum."

Felicity stared at his smug face. She gathered the saliva in her mouth and spat directly onto his cheek.

Brandt gasped, stumbling backward until his spine slammed into the wall sconce. He wiped his face, his eyes widening in pure fury. He raised his hand.

"Touch me," Felicity hissed, her eyes dead and cold. "And I will walk out there and tell the press to have their forensic accountants take a very close look at the Klein trust fund and your recent investments."

The words hit the room like a bomb.

Brandt's raised hand froze in mid-air. The color drained completely from his face. Brinley stopped crying, her mouth hanging open in shock.

Felicity didn't waste another second on the garbage in front of her.

She grabbed the heavy skirts of her star-gradient gown and marched toward the door.

She burst into the chaotic backstage hallway. Stage managers were screaming into headsets.

The massive monitor on the wall showed the countdown for the Best Actress presentation.

A security guard stepped in her path. "Ma'am, you need to wait for the cue-"

Felicity shoved past him, triggering the metal detector alarm.

She broke into a run. Her high heels clicked frantically against the marble floor. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

She slammed her hands against the heavy, soundproof double doors of the inner auditorium, desperate to find the man who had died for her.

Felicity threw her entire body weight against the heavy doors.

They burst open. A wall of deafening orchestral music and blinding stage lights slammed into her.

She stepped onto the red-carpeted aisle of the Dolby Theater. The star-gradient gown caught the massive spotlights, shimmering like a galaxy.

Heads in the back rows snapped toward her. Whispers erupted instantly.

A floor director with a headset sprinted toward her, waving his arms frantically. "Miss Klein! You can't be out here!"

Felicity dodged him with the agility of a panther. She kept her eyes locked dead ahead, marching straight down the center aisle toward the VIP front rows.

On stage, a legendary director was mid-speech, but the sudden commotion in the audience derailed him.

The live broadcast director in the control truck panicked. He smashed the button for camera two, cutting the live feed directly to Felicity. Two men in black suits were already closing in from the wings to intercept her, but a single, ice-cold glare from Collins stopped them dead in their tracks.

Her cold, determined face flashed onto the massive screens flanking the stage.

A collective gasp rippled through the three thousand Hollywood elites in the room.

Felicity ignored the thousands of eyes burning into her skin. Her gaze swept over the front row of billionaires and studio heads like a radar.

She found him.

Sitting three seats from the aisle, looking utterly bored, Collins Saunders was adjusting the cuffs of his Tom Ford suit.

He felt the shift in the room's energy. He slowly lifted his head. His sharp, predatory eyes locked onto her.

Their gazes collided in the heavy air.

Collins' brow furrowed in genuine confusion. He stopped adjusting his watch.

Felicity stopped three feet away from him. Her chest heaved violently from the sprint.

Looking at his living, breathing face-without the blood, without the fire-shattered her composure. Her eyes instantly welled with hot tears.

Collins saw the tears. A microscopic crack appeared in his icy facade. His muscles tensed, and he instinctively started to stand up.

Before he could fully rise, Felicity launched herself forward.

She didn't hesitate, rushing around the low VIP table separating them. Her heavy gown swept across its surface, knocking over a crystal champagne flute as she launched herself at him.

It shattered against the floor, splashing cold champagne onto Collins' polished leather shoes.

Felicity crashed directly into his chest, her momentum throwing him back into his velvet seat with a heavy thud.

She threw her arms around his thick neck, burying her face deep into his shoulder. The scent of cedarwood and expensive fabric filled her lungs.

Collins' entire body went rigid. His muscles turned to stone. His brain completely short-circuited.

This was the woman who had publicly humiliated his company, the woman who supposedly hated his guts.

His first instinct was to push her off. He raised his large hands, but the moment his fingers brushed the bare skin of her trembling shoulders, he froze.

Felicity sobbed. The hot, wet tears soaked right through the collar of his silk shirt, burning his skin.

His hands hovered awkwardly in the air over her waist, stripped of all their power.

The Dolby Theater descended into absolute, stunned silence. The presenter on stage stood frozen with his mouth open.

In the back of the theater, Brandt burst through the doors. He saw Felicity straddling his greatest rival. His face contorted into a mask of pure, ugly rage.

The press photographers snapped out of their shock. A blinding hurricane of camera flashes erupted, capturing the impossible embrace from every angle.

In the broadcast truck, the ratings graph shot straight up like a rocket.

Twitter servers buckled under the weight of a million simultaneous searches for "Felicity Collins hug." The ABC live feed stuttered and froze for three agonizing seconds.

Collins finally found his voice. "Felicity," he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous rumble in her ear. "What the hell are you doing? The cameras."

Felicity didn't care. She tightened her grip, burying her nails into his jacket.

She pressed her lips against his ear and whispered, her voice cracking with emotion.

"Got you."

The two words hit Collins like a physical blow to the chest, completely destroying the last pillar of his self-control.

Collins stopped breathing.

The words "Got you" echoed in his skull, completely short-circuiting his logic.

His hands, which had been hovering over her waist, finally dropped. He tentatively, almost reverently, wrapped his arms around her lower back.

The entire theater erupted into a chaotic symphony of gasps and frantic whispers.

Brandt, standing in the aisle, lost his mind. He shoved past an usher, sprinting toward the front row. Two massive security guards intercepted him, slamming him hard against the wall.

Felicity slowly lifted her head from Collins' neck.

She framed his sharp, tense jawline with both hands. Her thumbs brushed against his skin.

Her eyes were red and wet, but they burned with a terrifying, absolute certainty. She stared directly at his lips.

Collins' pupils dilated. He realized exactly what she was about to do. His instinct to protect his heavily guarded privacy flared, and he started to turn his head away.

Felicity didn't let him.

She gripped his jaw tightly, tilting his face back, and crashed her lips onto his.

The impact sent a violent jolt of electricity straight down Collins' spine.

The camera flashes exploded into a blinding strobe light, turning the theater into daylight.

On the massive broadcast screens, the kiss was magnified for tens of millions of viewers.

For one second, Collins remained completely stiff. Then, the obsession he had buried for ten years violently ripped through his restraints.

He took over.

His large hand swept up to cup the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her perfectly styled hair. He pulled her flush against his chest and deepened the kiss with brutal, punishing intensity.

His tongue parted her lips, tasting the salt of her tears, claiming her mouth with a dominant, possessive rhythm that left her breathless.

Felicity's hands slid to his broad shoulders, clutching his jacket to keep from falling as he kissed the air out of her lungs.

The sexual tension radiating from them was so thick it practically choked the people sitting in the adjacent seats.

Brandt watched his fiancée being devoured by his worst enemy. A guttural scream of humiliation ripped from his throat.

After thirty seconds of a kiss that felt like it was melting the room, Collins finally tore his lips away.

They were both panting. A thin, glistening thread of saliva connected their swollen lips before breaking.

Collins' eyes were pitch black with desire. He raised his thumb and roughly wiped a smear of her red lipstick from the corner of her mouth.

Without a word, he stood up, pulling her up with him.

He stripped off his custom Tom Ford suit jacket and threw it over her shoulders. The heavy fabric engulfed her, hiding her exposed skin from the ravenous cameras.

It was a blatant, territorial claim.

Before Felicity could adjust the jacket, Collins bent down and scooped her up into his arms.

He carried her bridal style. The heavy star-gradient gown cascaded over his arm.

Felicity rested her head against his chest. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a war drum. A genuine smile touched her lips.

Collins turned toward the side exit. His eyes were lethal.

The crowd parted instantly. The sheer, terrifying aura radiating from the billionaire forced everyone to step back.

Brandt finally broke free from the guards and lunged into the aisle, pointing a shaking finger at Collins. "Put her down! You son of a bitch!"

Collins didn't even break his stride. He looked at Brandt like he was looking at a dead rat on the sidewalk.

"Scram," Collins ordered, his voice echoing with absolute authority.

Brandt froze, physically pinned down by the sheer weight of Collins' stare.

Collins carried Felicity through the heavy metal side doors, kicking the push-bar open with his boot.

Outside, a horde of paparazzi swarmed like locusts.

Collins' private security detail instantly formed a human wall, violently shoving the cameras back.

The heavy metal doors slammed shut behind them, cutting off the flashes and the screaming, leaving them in the dim, quiet backstage corridor.