The brass knob turned with a heavy, metallic click.

Dolph pulled the heavy wooden door open, but only a few inches. His massive frame completely blocked the gap, cutting off any view into the dark locker room.

He looked down, his eyes cold and flat, staring at Gordon, who was panting and red-faced in the hallway.

Gordon's angry expression vanished the second he saw who opened the door. He took in Dolph's messy hair, the unbuttoned collar of his shirt, and the dark stain on his jacket.

Gordon's shoulders dropped. "Uncle Dolph," he stammered, taking a step back.

Inside the room, Jaelynn held her breath. Her lungs burned. She pressed her spine so hard against the wall she felt the plaster digging through her skin. Her hands gripped the torn edges of her red silk dress, her knuckles white.

Her heart was beating so fast she thought it might crack her ribs.

"Are you incapable of keeping your voice down in a private club, Gordon?" Dolph's voice was low, but it carried a lethal authority. "You are embarrassing the Valentine family."

Gordon swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. I was just... I'm looking for a woman. She doesn't know her place."

Gordon's eyes darted nervously, trying to peek through the narrow crack between Dolph's arm and the doorframe.

Dolph shifted his weight, turning his body slightly to block Gordon completely.

As he moved, he reached his hand behind his back, finding the bare skin of Jaelynn's waist. He pinched the soft flesh there, hard.

A violent shiver ripped through Jaelynn's body.

As he pinched her, a gasp clawed at her throat. Desperate to stay silent, she twisted and bit down hard on the hand that was holding her waist, her teeth sinking into his skin. Her eyes watered from the sheer effort of staying silent.

"Get out of my sight, Gordon," Dolph ordered, his tone devoid of any warmth. "Do not interrupt my private time again."

Before Gordon could say another word, Dolph slammed the door shut in his face.

The lock clicked into place.

Out in the hallway, Gordon's frantic footsteps quickly faded away.

Jaelynn's knees gave out. She slid down the wall, her body hitting the carpeted floor as all the strength drained from her muscles.

Dolph turned around. He looked down at her sitting on the floor. The heat from the kiss was completely gone from his eyes. There was only cold, calculating judgment left.

Jaelynn forced herself to swallow her pride. She pushed herself up from the floor, her legs shaking.

She pulled the torn fabric of her dress across her chest, trying to cover her exposed skin. She forced a stiff, unnatural smile onto her face.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Dolph reached into the pocket of his trousers. He pulled out a silver money clip, extracted a few crisp hundred-dollar bills, and tossed them onto the wooden bench next to her. As he pulled his hand from his pocket, a thick, gold-embossed business card slipped out and fluttered to the floor unnoticed by him.

"Don't have any unrealistic fantasies," Dolph said coldly. He didn't look at her again as he pushed the door open and walked out.

Jaelynn stared at the empty room. A massive wave of humiliation crashed over her, making her chest ache.

But she walked over to the bench. Her trembling fingers picked up the fallen card. She gripped it so tightly the sharp edges dug into her palm.

She walked over to the mirror above the sinks. She spent five minutes fixing her messy hair. She found a safety pin in her Chanel bag and pinned the torn zipper of her dress together.

She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed the door open, stepping back into the hallway.

The moment she turned the corner, Artie stepped out of the shadows, blocking her path. His face was dark with rage.

"Where the hell have you been?" Artie hissed, grabbing her arm. "The investors are getting impatient."

"I was in the bathroom. I threw up," Jaelynn lied, her voice flat. She yanked her arm out of his grip.

Artie didn't care. He grabbed her wrist again, dragging her down the hallway toward a different VIP suite.

As they walked past the semi-open booths of the cigar lounge, Jaelynn's feet suddenly stopped moving.

She heard a low, distinct laugh. It was Dolph.

She turned her head. Through the gaps in the carved glass partition, she saw Dolph sitting on a dark leather sofa. He was surrounded by a group of Wall Street heirs, including Benji Mclean, Gordon's best friend. They were all smoking thick cigars.

Benji leaned forward, his eyes catching something on Dolph's hand.

Benji whistled loudly. "Damn, Dolph. Look at that bite mark on your hand. Looks like you had a wild time in the back rooms tonight."

Jaelynn's entire body went stiff. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She knew exactly where that bite mark came from. She had bitten his hand in the locker room when he pinched her.

Dolph exhaled a thick cloud of gray smoke. He glanced down at the red teeth marks on his skin.

His face was completely bored. "Just got bit by a blind wildcat," he said, his tone dripping with casual disrespect.

The entire booth erupted into loud, obnoxious laughter.

Benji grinned. "How was the wildcat?"

Dolph took another drag of his cigar. "Tasteless. Boring."

Those two words hit Jaelynn like a physical slap to the face. The tiny bit of confidence she had built up about using him shattered into a million pieces.

Artie shoved her hard from behind. "Move!" he barked.

Jaelynn stumbled forward, her vision blurring. She pulled her eyes away from the glass and let Artie drag her away.

Artie shoved her through the doors of the VIP suite. The room was thick with cigar smoke and the smell of old men.

The investors looked up, their eyes crawling over her pinned dress like she was a piece of meat on display. The air in the room felt suffocating.

She was forced to sit on the edge of the leather sofa. She picked up a glass of water mechanically.

Dolph's voice echoed in her head. Tasteless. Boring.

Ortega, the balding investor, slid closer to her. He reached out his sweaty hand and placed it heavily on her bare thigh.

Jaelynn's body reacted before her brain did.

She grabbed the glass of ice water from the table and threw the freezing liquid directly into Ortega's face.

Ortega screamed, jumping up as the ice hit his eyes. The room descended into chaos.

Artie's face turned purple with fury. He raised his hand and swung.

Smack.

His heavy palm struck Jaelynn's cheek with brutal force. The impact threw her backward, her body crashing into the armrest of the sofa.

A sharp, burning pain exploded across her face. She tasted the warm, metallic flavor of blood pooling in her mouth.

She didn't cry. She slowly pushed herself up.

She turned her head and stared at Artie. Her eyes were dead, filled with a cold, terrifying hatred.

While the men yelled and cursed at her, Jaelynn grabbed her Chanel bag.

She shoved past Artie, ignoring his shouts, and ran out of the suite, never looking back.

The cold New York wind whipped through Jaelynn's hair as she stood on the sidewalk. She hailed a Yellow Cab, her body shivering violently in her thin silk dress.

She collapsed into the backseat, exhausted to her bones. The cab drove her back to the Upper East Side, to the Grant family's penthouse.

She punched the security code into the keypad and pushed the heavy front door open.

The massive apartment was pitch black. The only light came from a thin, yellow sliver shining from beneath the master bedroom door down the hall.

Jaelynn kicked off her high heels. Her feet ached. She walked barefoot across the thick Persian rug, heading toward the kitchen. She needed a glass of ice water to press against her swollen, throbbing cheek.

As she walked past the hallway leading to the master bedroom, she stopped.

A sound drifted through the crack in the door. It was a heavy, muffled panting, followed by a sickeningly sweet whisper.

Jaelynn's bare feet froze on the carpet.

She knew that male voice. It was the exact same voice that had screamed at her and slapped her in the club just hours ago. Artie.

Her stomach dropped. Her hands began to shake uncontrollably.

She reached out, her trembling fingers pressing against the slightly open door. She pushed it open.

The blood in her veins turned to solid ice.

In the center of the room, on the massive King-size bed, her mother, Jayne, was wearing a sheer silk nightgown. She was tangled intimately with Artie.

Jaelynn's mind flashed to the sterile white room at Mount Sinai Hospital. Her father, Garfield, was lying there right now, a plastic tube shoved down his throat, fighting for his life.

A wave of pure, violent nausea hit her.

Jaelynn shoved the door open all the way. It slammed against the wall with a loud bang.

Jayne let out a high-pitched scream. She scrambled backward, pulling the heavy duvet up to her chin to cover her body.

Artie didn't panic. He slowly sat up, reaching for his silk robe. He tied the belt around his waist and turned to look at Jaelynn. He had the smug, arrogant look of a man who had won everything.

Jaelynn raised her shaking hand, pointing a finger at the bed.

"How could you?" Jaelynn's voice cracked, shattering in the quiet room. "How could you betray Dad? How could you betray this family?"

Jayne didn't look guilty. She didn't even blush. She smoothed her messy hair and glared at her daughter.

"Stop screaming in the middle of the night, Jaelynn. Grow up," Jayne snapped, her voice dripping with annoyance.

Something inside Jaelynn snapped.

She lunged into the room. She grabbed a heavy, crystal perfume bottle off the vanity and hurled it straight at Artie's head.

Artie ducked. The bottle smashed against the wall, exploding into a thousand sharp, glittering pieces.

Artie lunged forward. He grabbed a fistful of Jaelynn's hair and yanked her backward.

He threw her hard onto the hardwood floor.

Jaelynn cried out as her palms hit the ground. The sharp shards of broken glass sliced deep into the flesh of her hands.

Jayne didn't jump out of bed to help her daughter. Instead, she sighed loudly. "You're bleeding on the rug, Jaelynn. That rug is expensive."

Jaelynn lay on the floor, staring at the bright red blood welling up in her palms. She looked up at her mother. She finally saw the ugly, selfish truth hiding behind Jayne's beautiful face.

Artie crouched down. He grabbed Jaelynn's jaw, his fingers pressing into her bruised cheek.

"You think the bankruptcy was an accident?" Artie laughed, a cruel, ugly sound. "Your mother and I moved the assets months ago. There is no money left for your precious father."

Jaelynn's eyes widened in horror. The bankruptcy wasn't a market failure. It was a calculated murder of her family's legacy.

Artie pulled his phone out of his pocket. He opened an email and shoved the screen inches from Jaelynn's face.

It was the billing statement from Mount Sinai Hospital. The numbers were astronomical.

"If you don't go to Ortega tomorrow, get on your knees, apologize, and spread your legs for him," Artie whispered maliciously, "I will call the hospital and tell them to pull Garfield's plug."

The anger in Jaelynn's chest vanished, replaced instantly by a suffocating, paralyzing terror. Her father's life was in this monster's hands. Her body began to tremble violently.

Jayne leaned against the headboard, looking down at her daughter.

"Be realistic, Jaelynn," Jayne said, her voice cold and practical. "A woman's body is a tool. Use it to get what you need."

Those words were the final blow. They severed the last string of sanity Jaelynn had left.

She let out a dry, broken laugh.

She didn't shed a single tear. She pushed herself up off the floor, ignoring the glass embedded in her hands.

She stared at the two of them with dead, hollow eyes. She memorized their faces.

Without a word, Jaelynn turned around and walked out of the master bedroom.

She walked down the hall, entered her own bedroom, and locked the door behind her.

She leaned her back against the door and slid down until she hit the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest, buried her face in her arms, and let out a choked, agonizing sob.

She cried for exactly five minutes.

Then, she snapped her head up. Her eyes were red, but the weakness was gone. Only a burning, destructive need for revenge remained.

She crawled over to her bed. She opened her Chanel bag and pulled out the slightly bent, gold-embossed business card.

Dolph Valentine.

She knew he was a monster. She knew he thought she was trash. But he was the only monster big enough to drag Artie and Jayne into hell. She was ready to sell her soul.

Jaelynn grabbed her phone. She looked at the glowing numbers on the clock. She slid the business card under her pillow and lay down in the dark, her mind racing as she planned her hunt for the next day.

The morning sun sliced through the gap in the curtains, stabbing directly into Jaelynn's swollen eyes.

She peeled herself off the cold hardwood floor. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the gold-embossed business card, gripping it tightly.

She picked up her phone and dialed the only person left in the world she trusted: her best friend, Adrianne Burton.

"Adrianne, I need you to find someone's schedule for me today," Jaelynn said, her voice raspy and raw.

Adrianne heard the deadness in her tone. "Jae? What happened? Where are you?"

"I don't have a home anymore," Jaelynn replied flatly.

Adrianne didn't ask any more questions. Using her connections in the Hollywood and New York trust-fund circles, it took Adrianne less than ten minutes to track down Dolph Valentine's private itinerary.

"He's playing tennis at the Hamptons Country Club today," Adrianne told her.

A cold, determined light flashed in Jaelynn's eyes.

She dragged a massive suitcase out of her closet. She didn't pack memories. She packed her most expensive, weaponized clothing and basic necessities. She was erasing herself from this apartment.

When she dragged the heavy suitcase out of her bedroom, Artie was sitting at the dining table, sipping an espresso.

He looked at her suitcase and smirked. "Going to Ortega's hotel? Don't forget to pack your sluttiest lingerie."

Jaelynn didn't even look at him. She slid a pair of dark sunglasses over her eyes, hiding her bruised cheek, and walked straight out the front door.

The heavy door slammed shut, cutting off Artie's toxic presence.

She took an Uber straight to Brooklyn, hauling her suitcase up the narrow stairs to Adrianne's tiny apartment.

The moment Jaelynn took off her coat and sunglasses, Adrianne gasped. She saw the dark purple handprint on Jaelynn's face and the bloody, bandaged cuts on her palms.

Adrianne started cursing Artie with every foul word she knew.

She dragged Jaelynn to the bathroom and pulled out a first-aid kit. While Adrianne cleaned the glass cuts with stinging alcohol, Jaelynn stared blankly at the wall and told her everything. The betrayal, the bankruptcy, the threat to pull her father's life support.

Adrianne pulled Jaelynn into a tight hug. "Whatever you need to do, I'm with you," she whispered.

Jaelynn sat in front of the mirror. She used Adrianne's heavy concealer, carefully dabbing it over the bruise on her cheek until the purple faded into a flawless, fake perfection.

She changed into a white, form-fitting tennis dress. The cut was daring, hugging every curve of her body tightly, leaving her long legs bare. It was armor.

She hugged Adrianne goodbye, rented a nondescript sedan, and merged onto the Long Island Expressway.

Two hours later, the hot midday sun baked the asphalt as Jaelynn parked near the massive wrought-iron gates of the Hamptons Country Club.

She walked up to the entrance. The security guard, recognizing her face but knowing the Grant family's financial ruin, coldly informed her that her membership had been revoked. She was barred from entry.

Jaelynn didn't panic. Her eyes scanned the driveway.

She spotted a familiar silver Porsche rolling toward the gates. It was Benji Mclean, Gordon's playboy best friend.

Jaelynn quickly took off her sunglasses. She walked toward the Porsche, putting on a helpless, sweet smile.

"Benji! My car just broke down. Could you give me a ride inside to find Gordon?" she lied smoothly.

Benji's eyes immediately dropped to the tight white tennis dress. He grinned, unlocking the passenger door. "Hop in, beautiful."

The moment the Porsche parked inside the club's grounds, Jaelynn told Benji she needed to use the restroom. Before he could object, she vanished into the crowd.

Relying on her memory from years of attending events here, she avoided the main security cameras and slipped into the restricted corridors.

She headed straight for the Men's VIP Private Locker Rooms. She remembered the layout from past events and knew the VIP locker rooms were in the west wing. After a tense moment hiding from a patrol, she spotted the Valentine family's insignia discreetly embossed on a heavy mahogany door with gold trim, guarded by a man built like a refrigerator. That had to be Dolph's room.

Jaelynn ducked behind a large potted palm tree. Her palms were sweating. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

Five minutes later, a club attendant pushed a cart full of ice water and fresh towels down the hall. The bodyguard turned his head to inspect the cart.

Now.

Jaelynn took a deep breath. She darted out from behind the tree, moving as silently as a cat. She grabbed the brass handle, twisted it, and slipped inside.

She pushed the door shut and locked it with a soft click.

Her heart was beating so hard she felt it in her throat.

The locker room smelled of expensive cedarwood and rich male cologne. From the back of the room, the sound of running water echoed from the frosted glass shower stalls.

Jaelynn kicked off her high heels. She stepped barefoot onto the heated marble floor, making absolutely no sound.

She walked slowly toward the shower.

The water suddenly stopped.

The frosted glass door swung open. A large, muscular hand pushed it aside.

Dolph Valentine stepped out. His dark hair was dripping wet. He wore nothing but a white towel wrapped low around his waist, his broad chest gleaming with water droplets.