Dolph's cold question hung in the air like a guillotine.

Gordon's face turned a sickly shade of pale, then flushed bright red. He quickly lowered his eyes, unable to meet his uncle's dominant stare.

"I... I'm sorry, Uncle Dolph. I didn't know," Gordon stammered, his voice trembling. He grabbed Benji by the arm and practically ran down the hallway to escape the suffocating pressure.

Dolph watched them leave. Once the hallway was empty, he stepped back and slammed the heavy door shut.

He turned around.

Jaelynn slowly stood up from behind the lockers. Her back was soaked in cold sweat. She leaned against the wood paneling, gasping for air as if she had just survived a drowning.

Dolph calmly reached down and pulled up the zipper of his trousers. He walked over to her, raising his hand.

He pinched her chin between his thumb and index finger, forcing her to look up at him.

"This kind of cheap trick only works once," he warned, his eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.

Jaelynn's stomach churned with humiliation, but she gritted her teeth. "As long as it works, once is enough."

Dolph scoffed. He dropped his hand, turning away from her in disgust.

He walked over to his jacket, pulled a sleek, black American Express Centurion card from his wallet, and tossed it at her.

The heavy metal card hit her bare collarbone and clattered onto the floor.

"Get out," Dolph ordered, his voice devoid of any emotion. "And don't ever show your face in front of me again."

Jaelynn stared at the black card on the floor. She didn't bend down to pick it up. If she took the money, the transaction was over. She would just be a high-priced prostitute. She needed his power, not a one-time payout.

She took a deep breath. She smoothed down the wrinkles in her white tennis dress, straightened her spine, and walked past him. She opened the door and left without saying a single word.

Meanwhile, out in the main lobby, Gordon was pacing. His mind was racing. Something felt wrong. He remembered a faint, sweet smell lingering in the hallway outside the locker room.

Chanel No. 5.

It was Jaelynn's signature scent.

Gordon stopped pacing. His eyes turned dark and vicious. He spun around and marched back toward the VIP locker room hallway.

When Gordon turned the corner, the hallway was empty. But his eyes immediately locked onto a piece of clothing draped over a leather bench outside Dolph's door.

It was a white women's tennis jacket.

Gordon walked over and snatched it up. He checked the collar. Embroidered in gold thread on the tag was the letter "J".

Gordon's pupils contracted. The veins in his forehead bulged against his skin.

He finally realized who the woman hiding in his uncle's room was.

A violent, sickening wave of betrayal and jealousy crashed over him. He threw the jacket onto the floor, stomping on it. He swore to make that shameless bitch pay.

On the other side of the club, Jaelynn slipped out a side door and walked toward the main pathways.

Her phone suddenly vibrated violently in her pocket. It was a text from Artie.

She opened it. It was a photo of the heart monitor in her father's ICU room. The numbers were dangerously erratic.

Beneath the photo was a message: Ortega is waiting for you at the outdoor tennis courts. Don't make him wait.

Jaelynn stared at the jagged green lines of her father's heartbeat. Her throat tightened. She had no way out. She forced her legs to move, walking toward the outdoor courts.

The midday sun was blinding. The courts were surrounded by New York's elite, sitting under white umbrellas.

Jaelynn immediately spotted Ortega. The fat, balding investor was sitting in a prime seat.

When Ortega saw her walking toward him in the tight dress, a disgusting, greedy light ignited in his eyes. He waved his hand, yelling at her to come pour his drink.

Jaelynn fought down the urge to vomit. She walked over to his table.

As she reached for the pitcher of water, she froze.

Walking onto the red clay court, dressed in pristine white athletic gear, was Dolph Valentine.

What shocked her even more was Ortega's reaction.

The ruthless Wall Street shark, who held her father's life in his hands, instantly jumped up from his chair. Ortega practically ran to the edge of the court, bowing and smiling like an obedient dog.

Ortega grabbed a fresh towel and offered it to Dolph, kissing up to him with sickening desperation.

Jaelynn stood frozen. She watched Dolph completely ignore Ortega. Dolph didn't even look at the man.

In that split second, Jaelynn truly understood the terrifying hierarchy of power. Artie was terrified of Ortega. Ortega was terrified of Dolph.

If she could chain herself to Dolph, Artie and Ortega would be nothing but insects to be crushed.

This realization hardened the ice in her veins. She would not let Dolph go. Even if it destroyed her.

Ortega, embarrassed by Dolph's rejection, walked back to the table. To regain his pathetic sense of dominance, he reached out and squeezed Jaelynn's thigh, hard.

Jaelynn gasped, the pain sharp and sudden. Her hand twitched, wanting to slap him across the face.

But the image of the heart monitor flashed in her mind.

She forced her hand down. She dug her fingernails into her own palms, breaking the skin again. She forced a stiff, dead smile onto her face and poured the water.

Out on the court, Dolph swung his racket.

As he followed through, his dark eyes flicked toward the umbrellas. He saw Ortega's hand on Jaelynn's leg. He saw her swallow her pride and endure it.

Dolph's grip on his racket tightened. A sudden, inexplicable surge of irritation flared in his chest.

The first set ended.

Dolph tossed his racket to a waiting ball boy without looking. He walked off the red clay court toward the shaded seating area, grabbing an ice-cold towel to wipe the sweat from the back of his neck.

His best friend, Boone Morgan, walked over and handed him a bottle of water. Boone's eyes swept over the crowd of wealthy spectators with a knowing smirk.

"Where's your date today, Dolph?" Boone teased, leaning against the fence. "Did the 'wildcat' from last night drain all your energy?"

Dolph took a long drink of water. His cold eyes drifted over to where Jaelynn was standing, currently having her waist gripped by Ortega.

"I came alone," Dolph said, his voice flat and loud enough to carry.

Ortega heard him. The fat investor's eyes lit up. He saw the ultimate opportunity to suck up to the billionaire.

Ortega stood up. He grabbed Jaelynn by the wrist and dragged her like a piece of luggage over to where Dolph was standing.

"Mr. Valentine!" Ortega smiled, his face greasy with sweat. "If you need a doubles partner to pass the time, please, borrow my girl. She plays well."

Ortega was offering Jaelynn up like a rented toy.

The surrounding trust-fund kids and businessmen heard the offer. A wave of low, dirty laughter rippled through the crowd. Everyone looked at Jaelynn like she was a cheap escort.

All the blood drained from Jaelynn's face. A wave of humiliation so thick she could barely breathe crashed over her.

She bit down hard on her lower lip, tasting blood again. But she didn't pull her arm away.

She knew this was her only chance to get back onto Dolph's radar in public. She had to prove she was useful.

Dolph didn't answer immediately. His dark, heavy gaze locked onto Jaelynn's pale, trembling face. He stared at her for three agonizing seconds.

Then, he casually raised an eyebrow. A silent permission.

Ortega beamed with joy. He shoved a spare tennis racket into Jaelynn's chest and pushed her hard between the shoulder blades. "Get on the court!"

Jaelynn stumbled forward. She gripped the handle of the racket, took a deep breath, and forced her stiff legs to walk out onto the baking hot red clay.

Just as her foot crossed the baseline, a violent figure burst out from the spectator stands.

It was Gordon.

His eyes were bloodshot. He was holding the white tennis jacket with the embroidered "J" in his fist, looking like a rabid dog.

Gordon marched right up to Jaelynn and threw the jacket violently into her face.

"You filthy whore!" Gordon hissed, his voice trembling with rage. "You're sleeping with everyone now?"

The entire tennis court went dead silent. The crowd watched in shock. Boone let out a low whistle, clearly enjoying the drama.

The metal zipper of the jacket scratched Jaelynn's cheek. She pulled the fabric away from her face and stared at her ex-fiancé. Her eyes were completely dead, devoid of any warmth.

"We broke off the engagement, Gordon," Jaelynn said, her voice eerily calm. "Who I play tennis with, or who I sleep with, is none of your business."

Her cold indifference shattered Gordon's fragile ego.

He lunged forward. His large hand clamped down on Jaelynn's right wrist-the hand holding the racket.

"I'm going to make you crawl back to me on your knees," Gordon snarled, squeezing her wrist with all his strength.

Jaelynn gasped in pain. She tried to yank her arm back.

She felt more than heard a sickening pop in her wrist. A white-hot, agonizing, blinding pain shot up her arm and straight into her brain. Her face turned the color of ash. Cold sweat instantly broke out across her forehead.

Gordon raised his other hand, ready to hit her.

"Let her go."

The voice came from the other side of the net. It was freezing cold, dripping with lethal authority.

Dolph stood there, holding his racket in one hand. His eyes were fixed on Gordon, radiating a terrifying, oppressive aura that silenced the entire court.

Gordon froze. He looked at his uncle's eyes and felt a primal fear. He slowly uncurled his fingers, dropping Jaelynn's wrist. He glared at her one last time before turning and storming off the court.

Jaelynn's right arm fell limply to her side. The racket dropped onto the clay. Her wrist was already swelling, turning a dark, ugly purple.

Ortega didn't ask if she was okay. He threw his hands up in the air. "You're ruining the mood! You're ruining Mr. Valentine's game!" he yelled at her.

Jaelynn ignored him. She reached over with her left hand and grabbed her injured right wrist, squeezing it to stop the shaking.

She bent down, using her awkward left hand to pick up the heavy racket.

She stood up straight. She looked across the net, locking eyes with Dolph.

"I can still play," she said. Her voice shook, but the words were crystal clear.

The midday sun beat down on the red clay, baking the air until it was thick and hard to breathe.

Jaelynn stood at the baseline. She gritted her teeth against the tearing pain in her wrist. She tossed the neon yellow ball awkwardly into the air with her left hand.

She forced her swollen right hand to grip the racket and swing.

The moment the strings hit the ball, a violent, agonizing jolt of pain shot up her arm, straight into her skull.

The ball barely cleared the net, landing weakly out of bounds.

A few people in the stands let out cruel, mocking laughs.

Jaelynn's face was chalk white. Huge drops of cold sweat rolled down her temples, stinging her eyes. But she didn't stop. She bent down to pick up a second ball.

Dolph stood on the opposite side of the court. He didn't move to return the bad serve.

His dark eyes were locked onto her wrist, which was now swollen to the size of a baseball.

He watched her raise the racket again. A sudden, violent surge of anger and frustration exploded in his chest.

Dolph raised his arm and smashed his own racket violently into the red clay.

The loud, aggressive crack silenced the laughter in the stands instantly.

Dolph swept his cold, murderous gaze over the crowd, daring anyone to speak. "Game over," he announced.

Ortega panicked. He thought Dolph was furious at Jaelynn for ruining the match. Ortega jumped up, pointing a fat finger at her. "You useless piece of trash! Look what you did!"

Dolph ignored Ortega completely. He walked straight to the net, his eyes fixed on Jaelynn.

"Come with me," Dolph ordered. It wasn't a request.

Jaelynn blinked, stunned. She dropped the racket.

Under the shocked stares of the entire country club, she dragged her exhausted, aching body and followed Dolph off the court.

They walked in silence through the long, air-conditioned corridors of the club, heading down to the VIP underground parking garage. The silence between them was heavy and suffocating.

Dolph stopped in front of a sleek, black Aston Martin. He pressed a button on his keys, and the headlights flashed in the dim garage.

He pulled open the passenger door. "Get in. I'm taking you to the private clinic down the road to get an X-ray."

Jaelynn stood by the open door. She didn't move.

She knew how this worked. If he took her to the hospital, he would pay the bill, drop her off, and their transaction would be over. She would lose her leverage.

She looked up at his sharp, cold jawline.

Suddenly, she took a large step forward, invading his space. She backed him up until his legs hit the side of the car, trapping him between the open door and her body.

Dolph frowned, his muscles tensing. He opened his mouth to tell her to back off.

Before he could speak, Jaelynn pushed up on her tiptoes. She grabbed the collar of his expensive polo shirt with her good left hand, pulled his head down, and crashed her lips against his.

It was a desperate, messy kiss. She had no technique. Her lips were trembling, tasting of salty sweat and fear.

Dolph's entire body went rigid. His hands instantly came up, gripping her shoulders to push her away.

But as his fingers dug into her skin, he felt how violently she was shaking. He felt her swollen, broken right hand resting weakly against his chest, trying to hold onto him.

His hands stopped pushing.

Jaelynn felt his hesitation. She thought she had failed. A wave of crushing despair washed over her, and she started to pull her lips away.

The second she retreated, Dolph's control snapped.

His large hand slid to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. He yanked her back, crushing his mouth down onto hers with terrifying force.

He kissed her like he wanted to devour her. His tongue forced her lips apart, sweeping through her mouth, taking everything.

He pushed her backward until her spine hit the cold metal of the Aston Martin. The freezing car body and his burning hot mouth sent a violent shock through her nervous system.

Dolph's hands slid down her back, gripping her waist. He lifted her slightly off the ground, pressing her body flush against his.

Jaelynn let out a muffled gasp. Her injured right wrist accidentally bumped hard against his solid chest.

Tears of pure physical agony sprang to her eyes.

Feeling her flinch, Dolph ripped his mouth away. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving.

He looked down at her swollen lips and the tears in her eyes.

"Damn it," he cursed, his voice a raw, gravelly growl in the quiet garage.

He didn't mention the hospital again. A look of self-disgust flashed across his face. Angry at his own loss of control, he grabbed her by the waist, practically throwing her into the passenger seat, and leaned over to buckle her seatbelt.

Dolph walked around the car and slid into the driver's seat. He slammed his hand against the push-to-start button.

The Aston Martin's V12 engine roared to life like an angry beast. The tires screeched against the concrete as the car shot out of the parking garage.

Jaelynn leaned her head back against the leather seat. She looked at Dolph's tight jaw profile. She knew, in that moment, she had successfully torn off his mask of indifference.