The cab didn't move.

Carra stared at the glowing red taillights stretching endlessly down Sunset Boulevard. The meter clicked loudly, echoing the frantic pounding of her heart.

"Move," Carra snapped, leaning forward to grip the plastic partition. "Please, just drive."

"I can't fly, lady," the driver muttered, pointing a thick finger at the windshield. "Fender bender up ahead. We're stuck."

Carra bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She needed to get there. She needed to see it.

A massive, pitch-black Maybach pulled up silently into the lane next to the cab. It looked like a tank wrapped in luxury.

The heavily tinted rear window hummed down.

Jory Elliott's sharp profile appeared in the gap. He turned his head, locking those dead eyes onto her through the glass.

"Get out of the cab," Jory commanded. It wasn't a request.

Carra looked at the gridlocked traffic ahead. She didn't have a choice.

She threw a crumpled twenty-dollar bill at the driver, kicked the door open, and stepped into the damp street.

She climbed into the back of the Maybach. The heavy door shut with a solid thud, instantly cutting off the noise of the city. The air inside smelled of rich leather and that same intoxicating cedarwood.

"Drive, Frank," Jory said.

The driver smoothly merged the massive car into the restricted bus lane, bypassing the miles of stuck cars with absolute immunity.

Jory opened a hidden compartment. He poured a heavy measure of amber bourbon into a crystal glass and shoved it into Carra's trembling hands.

She didn't hesitate. She threw her head back and swallowed the liquor in one gulp. The alcohol burned a fiery trail down her throat, forcing her lungs to expand.

Jory watched her chest heave. His lips curled into a cold, hard line.

"The woman in the photo," Jory said, his voice slicing through the silence. "Her name is Eloisa Lindsey."

Carra stiffened. Everyone in Los Angeles PR knew that name. She was a billionaire heiress, untouchable and pristine.

"She is also my fiancée," Jory added.

Carra's head snapped toward him. Her eyes widened.

The pieces clicked together. The photos. The tracking. The cold fury radiating from his pores. He wasn't a rival agent. He was a man whose pride had just been dragged through the mud, exactly like hers.

The Maybach pulled up to an unmarked building covered in thick ivy. There was no sign. No bouncer. Just a solid oak door.

Carra stepped out onto the pavement. Her legs felt like lead.

She walked toward the entrance. Two men wearing earpieces stepped out of the shadows, crossing their arms to block her path.

"Black card only, miss," one of them grunted.

Jory stepped up behind her. He reached over her shoulder, holding a heavy metal card between his index and middle finger. It bore a gold family crest.

The guard's eyes dropped to the card. The color drained from his face. He bowed at a sharp ninety-degree angle and scrambled to pull the heavy oak door open.

They walked into a dimly lit hallway. Low bass jazz pulsed through the floorboards. The air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume and secrets.

Jory leaned down. His mouth was inches from her ear.

"Dry your eyes," he whispered harshly. "This place eats the weak alive."

He guided her to a private elevator at the end of the hall. The doors slid shut, trapping them in a space so small Carra could feel the heat coming off his body.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened to the penthouse floor.

They stepped onto a thick Persian rug. At the end of the corridor, the double doors to the Presidential Suite were cracked open.

A high-pitched moan echoed into the hallway.

Carra's body froze. Her blood turned to ice. She knew that voice. She knew the low, breathless laugh that followed it. It was Vance.

Her feet refused to move.

Jory stepped behind her. He placed his large, scorching hands on her bare shoulders and shoved her forward.

Carra stumbled until she was standing right outside the gap in the door.

She looked through the crack.

Vance was on the velvet sofa. Eloisa's blonde hair was tangled in his hands.

The last thread of Carra's sanity snapped.

She reached into her purse with shaking hands and pulled out her phone. She opened the camera app. She needed proof to protect herself from the PR fallout. But her thumb was trembling so violently she couldn't press the red circle.

Jory's large hand covered hers. His grip was bruising, but it stopped the shaking.

He pressed her thumb down onto the record button.

The screen captured the betrayal in high definition.

Carra let out a shaky breath. Her hand slipped. The edge of her phone slammed hard against the wooden doorframe.

A loud, sharp crack rang out in the quiet hallway.

Inside the room, the movement on the sofa stopped instantly.

"Who's out there?" Vance's voice barked from inside the suite.

Carra heard the frantic rustling of clothes. Panic seized her throat. She tried to step back, wanting to run, wanting to hide.

Jory's hand flattened against the middle of her back. He didn't let her retreat. Instead, he reached out and shoved the heavy double doors wide open.

The doors slammed against the walls.

Carra was thrust into the bright light of the suite.

Vance was standing by the sofa, frantically buttoning his silk shirt. Eloisa was huddled in the corner, clutching a throw blanket to her chest, her eyes wide with terror.

Vance's panic vanished the second he recognized Carra. His face twisted into an ugly mask of rage.

"Are you insane?" Vance yelled, marching toward her. "Are you tracking me now? You psycho!"

Carra didn't flinch. She raised her phone, the screen still displaying the video she had just taken. Her voice came out eerily calm, stripped of all emotion.

"I don't need to track you, Vance. You left a trail of garbage all over the city."

Vance glanced at the screen. He swallowed hard, but his ego refused to let him back down.

"You don't understand anything," Vance sneered, pointing a finger at her. "This is a PR rehearsal. We are doing a chemistry read for the new Gucci campaign. You're my publicist, you should know this!"

Carra felt a sick laugh bubble up in her throat.

"A chemistry read?" she repeated. "With your pants unzipped?"

"You're suffocating me!" Vance shouted, trying to flip the blame. "You control my schedule, my diet, my life! You're just a glorified assistant, Carra. Know your place!"

Carra's whole body shook. Tears burned the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

Then, the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps echoed from the doorway.

Jory Elliott walked out of the shadows and stepped into the room. The air pressure in the suite instantly plummeted.

Vance stopped yelling. His jaw dropped. He stared at the man who owned the very studio that paid his salary. The blood rushed out of Vance's face, leaving him looking like a corpse.

Eloisa let out a pathetic squeak. She dropped to her knees on the carpet.

"Jory..." Eloisa whimpered, her voice trembling.

Jory didn't even look at her. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and tossed it onto the glass coffee table.

It landed with a soft slap.

"Read it," Jory commanded.

Vance slowly picked up the paper. His eyes scanned the text. It was a medical document from a private clinic in Beverly Hills.

Eloisa Lindsey. Eight weeks pregnant.

Carra felt like she had been punched in the stomach. Three years. She and Vance had been together for three years, meticulously careful because he said a baby would ruin his career. And now, this.

"Mr. Elliott, please," Vance stammered, dropping the paper as if it burned him. He fell to his knees right there on the rug. "I didn't know she was your fiancée. I swear to God. It was a mistake."

"The EK Group does not tolerate scandals that humiliate its CEO," Jory said, his voice flat and deadly. "You are a dead man in this town, Sterling."

"No! Please!" Vance crawled forward. "I'll do anything. I'll pay you. I'll do whatever you want!"

Jory looked down at him with absolute disgust.

"I will not tolerate my name being dragged through the mud by a failed engagement. I dictate the narrative, not the tabloids," Jory said coldly. "We pivot."

Vance blinked, confused.

"You will announce to the press tomorrow that you and Eloisa are deeply in love and expecting a child," Jory dictated. "And I will take Carra. I need a wife to pacify my family and the board, and you need a miracle to survive this. We spin it as a mutual parting of ways. A tragic romance."

Vance didn't even hesitate for a second.

"Yes. Yes, of course," Vance nodded frantically. He turned to Carra, his eyes hard. "Carra, you hear that? You're out. You're too plain for me anyway. You were just a stepping stone. Get out of my way."

The last shred of Carra's heart turned to ash.

She walked up to Vance. She didn't yell. She didn't cry.

She raised her right arm, pulling it back as far as she could, and slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength in her body.

The crack sounded like a gunshot.

Vance's head snapped to the side. A drop of blood instantly welled up at the corner of his mouth.

"I quit," Carra said, her voice dripping with venom. "And we are done."

She turned on her heel. She kept her spine perfectly straight and walked out of the suite without looking back.

Jory watched her go. He adjusted his cufflink, shot Vance a look that promised death, and followed her out.

Carra made it to the elevator. She punched the button. The doors slid open, and she stepped inside.

The second the metal doors closed, cutting them off from the world, her knees gave out.

She slid down the wall of the elevator, gasping for air as the adrenaline crashed.

Jory stood over her. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a dark blue silk handkerchief that smelled of cedarwood, and silently held it out to her.

Carra pushed through the heavy glass doors of the club and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The Los Angeles sky had broken open. A freezing, torrential downpour lashed against the pavement.

She ignored the rain. She pulled out her phone and opened a hotel booking app. She needed a room. She needed a bed where she could scream into a pillow.

She selected a cheap motel and hit pay.

Transaction Declined.

Carra frowned. She wiped the rain off her screen and tried again.

Card Frozen. Please contact your administrator.

Her breath caught. The credit card was a corporate card, issued by Vance's management team. The apartment they shared was leased under his LLC.

She was homeless. She had absolutely nothing.

The black Maybach glided to a stop right in front of her, its tires hissing on the wet asphalt.

The rear window rolled down.

"Get in the car, Carra," Jory ordered, his voice cutting through the sound of the rain. "Stop making a scene on the street."

Carra gripped her phone so tightly her knuckles turned white.

"I don't need your charity," she yelled over the storm. "I don't need another liar controlling my life!"

Jory's jaw tightened. He didn't argue.

He kicked his door open and stepped out into the pouring rain. He didn't bother with an umbrella.

He closed the distance between them in three massive strides. Before Carra could scream, he bent down, wrapped his arm around the back of her knees, and hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

"Put me down!" Carra shrieked, pounding her fists against his solid back.

Jory ignored her. He dumped her unceremoniously into the back seat of the Maybach and climbed in after her, slamming the door shut.

"Privacy screen," Jory snapped.

The soundproof glass partition between them and the driver immediately slid up.

Carra was shivering violently. Her thin dress was plastered to her skin.

Jory stripped off his wet suit jacket and threw it over her head. The heavy fabric smelled of him, warm and masculine.

The car sped through the city, diving into the underground parking garage of the most expensive skyscraper in Century City.

Jory dragged her out of the car and into a private elevator that required his fingerprint to operate.

The doors opened directly into a massive penthouse. The walls were all floor-to-ceiling glass, overlooking the glittering, rain-swept city. The furniture was cold, sharp, and minimalist. It looked like a museum, not a home.

A terrified housekeeper rushed out.

"Run a hot bath. Now," Jory ordered, loosening his tie and ripping it from his neck.

Carra threw his wet jacket onto a white leather sofa.

"Who do you think you are?" Carra screamed, the anger finally boiling over. "You think because you have money you can just kidnap people?"

Jory walked over to a crystal decanter and poured two glasses of whiskey.

"You couldn't even afford a cab," Jory mocked, his voice lethal. "Your freedom is currently worth zero dollars."

Carra saw red.

"You're exactly like him!" she yelled, marching right up to him. She poked her index finger hard into the center of his chest. "You're just a capitalist pig who uses women as chess pieces to fix your stock prices!"

Jory's eyes went completely black. The air in the room suddenly felt too thin to breathe.

He dropped his glass. It shattered on the hardwood floor.

He grabbed her wrist, twisting it behind her back, and slammed her against the freezing glass of the floor-to-ceiling window.

Carra gasped, her chest heaving against his.

Outside, the storm raged. Inside, the silence was deafening.

Jory lowered his head. He didn't ask for permission. He crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a punishment. It was raw, aggressive, and entirely consuming.

Carra fought him. She thrashed against his grip, twisting her head. Her teeth clashed against his, and she bit down hard on his lower lip.

The metallic taste of blood flooded their mouths.

Instead of pulling away, Jory groaned. The pain seemed to ignite something feral inside him. He deepened the kiss, his tongue invading her mouth, tasting his own blood.

The fight drained out of Carra, replaced by a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions. She hated him. She hated all these powerful, arrogant men who thought they could play God with her life. But his overwhelming dominance, the absolute certainty in his punishing grip, violently clashed with the shattered pieces of her reality. The sheer intensity of his anger was a stark contrast to Vance's pathetic cowardice.

The alcohol, the betrayal, and the sheer exhaustion of the night crashed down on her. She was drowning in the agony of the last few hours, and she desperately needed something-anything-to overwrite the suffocating pain of being thrown away. A darker, more consuming fire to burn away the memories.

She let go of her pride. She grabbed the lapels of his wet shirt and pulled him closer.

Jory didn't hesitate. He swept her off her feet, carrying her down the hallway.

He kicked the master bedroom door open with his foot and threw her onto the massive king-sized bed.

He followed her down, his large hands gripping the thin silk of her ruined dress. With one violent tug, the fabric tore.

Thunder shook the glass windows of the penthouse, drowning out the sound of logic breaking apart.

Carra closed her eyes, digging her nails into his back, and let herself drown in the wreckage.