The wind from the helicopter blades was a physical assault. Cinnamon fell to her knees, shielding her eyes from the flying gravel. Chase was screaming, clutching his ears, teetering dangerously on the edge.

The helicopter didn't hover. It landed swiftly on the far side of the helipad, its engines whining down but not off. The door slid open.

Arturo stepped out, followed by two men in sharp suits who were clearly his personal security. He didn't run. He walked toward the scene with a chilling calm, his suit jacket unbuttoned and flapping in the residual wind. He stopped a good thirty feet away, a predator assessing his territory.

Chase saw him. His face twisted into a snarl of pure hatred. "You! You stole her!"

Arturo ignored him completely. His eyes were locked on Cinnamon. He gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod to one of his men, who began to circle slowly to the left.

"She's mine!" Chase shrieked, waving the box cutter. He took a shuffling step toward Cinnamon.

"Is she?" Arturo's voice cut through the wind, cold and measured. "Look at her, Chase. She came up here, but she's not looking at you. She's looking at me. She always will."

A news drone, which had been circling, now hovered twenty feet away, its red light a malevolent eye. Arturo glanced at it, then back at Chase. The gears in his mind were turning, seeing not just a threat, but an opportunity. A public display of control. A way to dominate the news cycle and bury the SEC story under a wave of heroic drama.

"Liar!" Chase screamed.

"You offer her a jump into nothing. I offer her the world," Arturo continued, taking another deliberate step forward. "You think this is about love? This is about power. And you have none."

The psychological attack worked. Chase's focus shifted entirely to Arturo. He lunged away from the ledge, charging at him with the box cutter raised.

Arturo didn't move. He stood his ground. Just as Chase closed the distance, the security guard who had been circling tackled him from the side, a brutal, efficient move that sent Chase sprawling onto the gravel. The box cutter skittered away.

The second guard was on him in an instant, pinning him, while the first retrieved the weapon. It was over in seconds. Clean. Professional. No heroics.

Cinnamon was shaking so hard her teeth chattered. She stared at Arturo, who was calmly adjusting his cuffs as his men secured the threat. He looked up and saw the drone.

He turned to Cinnamon. His eyes were dark, burning with an emotion she couldn't name. Anger? Relief? Calculation.

He strode toward her. He didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't hug her.

He grabbed her face with both hands, his grip bordering on painful.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She stared up at him, her eyes wide.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was a branding. His lips crashed onto hers with bruising force. He tasted of copper and adrenaline. He kissed her like he was trying to consume her, to inhale her soul so that no one else could ever touch it.

Cinnamon gasped against his mouth, her hands clutching his shirt for balance. For a moment, the world stopped. The wind, the noise, the fear-it all vanished, replaced by the overwhelming reality of him.

The drone hovered, broadcasting the image to millions of screens. WattsKiss was trending before they even broke apart.

Arturo pulled back, but he didn't let go of her face. He pressed his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged.

"You are mine," he growled, low enough that only she could hear. "Your life belongs to me. You do not get to die without my permission. Do you understand?"

Cinnamon looked at him. She felt a strange, twisted cocktail of shame and safety. "I understand."

He took off his jacket and threw it over her head, shielding her from the camera. He wrapped his arm around her waist, lifting her off her feet, and carried her toward the helicopter.

Behind them, Chase was screaming her name as the police, finally arriving on the roof, dragged him into the stairwell.

Inside the helicopter, the noise was deafening. Arturo sat her down and buckled her in. He sat next to her, his thigh pressing against hers. He took her hand and interlaced their fingers, squeezing so hard her bones ground together.

As the helicopter lifted off, Cinnamon looked out the window. Down below, on the street, she saw a massive yellow airbag deployed.

She looked back at Arturo. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched.

He knew. He knew Chase wouldn't have died if he jumped. He knew the police were there.

He didn't need to risk a fight.

It was a show.

He had turned a suicide attempt into a PR stunt. He had turned her trauma into a statement of ownership.

She looked at his hand, the one holding hers. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket with his free hand and wiped the palm that had touched Chase. He scrubbed it, his face twisted in disgust, as if he had touched something rotting.

A chill went through Cinnamon that had nothing to do with the altitude.

He had saved her, yes. But he had also used her.

She was safe. But she was trapped.

Cinnamon woke up screaming.

The dream was a blur of falling bodies and Arturo's mouth-bloody and consuming. She sat up, gasping for air, her sheets tangled around her legs.

She was in her room at the Manor. The morning sun was streaming in, cheerful and mocking.

She threw off the covers and went to the window to open it for some fresh air. It opened two inches and stopped.

She pushed harder. It didn't budge.

She looked closely. A new, heavy-duty limiter lock had been installed on the frame.

"Mr. Watts had them installed while you slept," a voice said from the door.

Mrs. Higgins walked in with a tray of breakfast. She wouldn't meet Cinnamon's eyes. "He said it's for your safety. With the... press and all."

"Am I a prisoner?" Cinnamon asked, her voice raspy.

"You're recovering, dear. He said you're to stay inside for a few days. The reporters are camped at the gates."

Cinnamon grabbed the remote and turned on the TV mounted on the wall.

Every channel.

CNN: The Billionaire and the Beauty: A Modern Fairytale?

Fox: Watts Capital Stock Soars After Heroic Rescue.

TMZ: WattsKiss Breakdown: True Love or Trauma Bond?

The footage of the kiss played on a loop. Cinnamon watched herself being devoured by him. She felt sick. Her terror was boosting his portfolio.

She reached for her phone on the nightstand. It wasn't there.

In its place was a sleek, black burner phone. She picked it up. There was only one number saved in the contacts: A.

"Where is my phone?" she demanded.

"Mr. Watts has it," Mrs. Higgins said, backing out of the room. "He said you need a digital detox."

Cinnamon threw a pillow at the closing door.

She spent the morning pacing. By noon, she was climbing the walls. She needed answers. She needed to confront him.

She went downstairs. The house was quiet. She checked the study. Empty. She checked the kitchen. Empty.

She walked past the small office used by Carter and the assistants. The door was open. The shredder was whirring.

Carter was feeding documents into the machine. He looked up, saw her, and jumped, trying to cover the stack of papers with his body.

"Ms. Taylor! You should be resting."

"Where is he?"

"He's... out. Handling the fallout."

Cinnamon's eyes drifted to the shredder bin. It was full, but a few strips of paper were stuck in the teeth.

One strip had a grainy, black and white photograph on it. It showed a man who looked like a younger version of her father, shaking hands with another man in front of a small, private jet. The tail number of the jet was partially visible.

Cinnamon felt a jolt of recognition. The other man was a known rival of the Watts family, a man who had mysteriously disappeared in the late 90s.

Why was Carter shredding photos of her father with Arturo's enemies?

"Who is that with my father?" she asked, stepping forward.

Carter quickly reversed the machine, sucking the strip back in and destroying it completely. "I don't know what you're talking about. Just old files. Please, Ms. Taylor, go back to your room."

"Tell me where Arturo is."

Carter sighed. "He's meeting someone. To... manage the narrative."

"Who?"

"Sasha Vane."

Cinnamon froze. She knew that name. Everyone knew that name. Sasha Vane was a supermodel, but in the inner circles, she was known as "The Cleaner." Whenever a high-profile man had a scandal, Sasha Vane would suddenly be seen on his arm, distracting the press with her legs and her smile.

"Why is he meeting her?"

"Tiffany has been talking to the press," Carter admitted, looking miserable. "About... how unstable you are. About your father. Arturo needs a distraction. A new headline to bury the 'Suicide Bride' angle."

Cinnamon walked out of the room. Her head was spinning.

He was going to fake a romance with a supermodel to distract from the kiss? To make yesterday look like a mistake? A moment of madness?

She felt a stinging humiliation. That kiss... she had felt it in her soul. And to him, it was just a PR mess to be cleaned up.

She went back to her room. She waited until nightfall.

She found her old iPad under the bed-Mrs. Higgins had missed it. She connected to the neighbor's weak Wi-Fi.

Gawker: Arturo Watts spotted entering 'The Vault' tonight. Sasha Vane arrived ten minutes later.

Cinnamon stared at the screen.

She wasn't going to sit here and be the locked-up princess while he played games.

She went to her closet and pulled out a black hoodie and leggings. She went to the window. The limiter lock was strong, but the screws were exposed.

She used a nail file from the bathroom. It took twenty minutes, but she got the screws out.

She slid the window open. The trellis was right there.

She was going to that club.

The bass from "The Vault" vibrated in the pavement outside. It was one of those members-only clubs in Meatpacking where the bouncers judged your soul before checking your ID.

Cinnamon watched from across the street. She had climbed the garden wall, ruined her manicure, and taken a cash cab here. She felt raw, exposed, and furious.

She couldn't just walk in.

She called Mia on the burner phone. "It's time. Remember Mr. Dubois, the owner of The Vault? The one whose provenance I authenticated for that stolen Monet? Call him. Tell him I need to see the security feed in his back office. It's a matter of life and death."

Ten minutes later, Cinnamon was walking through a discreet side entrance, greeted by a nervous-looking manager who led her not to the main floor, but to a small, dark security office overlooking the chaos. On a bank of monitors, she saw the entire club laid out before her.

She spotted them in the VIP section. It was hard to miss. It was the only booth where people were keeping a respectful distance.

Arturo was sitting on the velvet banquette. He had discarded his tie. His top button was undone, exposing the hollow of his throat. He looked devastatingly handsome and completely bored.

Sasha Vane was draped over him like a silk scarf. She was wearing a dress that was more concept than fabric. She laughed at something, leaning in to whisper in his ear.

Arturo didn't pull away. He handed her a drink.

A flash went off. A "paparazzi" who had somehow gotten inside.

Arturo's hand moved to Sasha's waist. He pulled her closer. It looked intimate. It looked possessive.

Cinnamon felt like she had been stabbed. She zoomed in on the monitor, her hand shaking.

The photographer left.

Immediately, Arturo dropped his hand. He shifted away from Sasha, creating a distinct gap between them. His face went back to stone.

Cinnamon watched, her heart a cold lump in her chest. It was all an act.

She watched as Sasha accepted a thick manila envelope from Arturo. She slid it into her purse.

Money. He was paying her.

Sasha stood up and headed toward the restrooms.

Cinnamon turned to the manager. "I need to get into the ladies' room. Unseen." He nodded, pointing to a service corridor on the schematic.

The restroom was an oasis of white marble and bright lights. Sasha was at the mirror, reapplying lipstick. Cinnamon slipped in behind her, the soft click of the door barely making a sound.

"Easy money," Sasha muttered to her reflection. "Just smile and nod."

Cinnamon walked up behind her. "How much?"

Sasha jumped, spinning around. "Jesus! You scared me. Wait... I know you. You're... her."

"I'm Cinnamon Taylor."

Sasha's eyes widened. She looked Cinnamon up and down. "Oh. The ward. The one causing all the trouble."

"How much is he paying you to pretend?"

Sasha smirked, leaning back against the sink. "Honey, it's not just pretending. It's crisis management. And to answer your question: enough to buy a condo in Tribeca."

"Why?" Cinnamon asked, her voice breaking. "Why you?"

"Because the SEC is sniffing around his books," Sasha said, checking her nails. "And having a fiancée whose father was a con artist doesn't look good on an audit. He needs a clean, American distraction. That's me."

Cinnamon felt the blood drain from her face. "He's... he's doing it to protect the audit?"

"He's doing it to survive. You're a liability, sweetie. A walking red flag. He's trying to keep the feds from looking too closely at you."

Cinnamon stared at her. To keep them from looking at me?

The door swung open.

Arturo walked in. He filled the space instantly. He saw Cinnamon, and his face went dark with a terrifying mixture of shock and fury.

"Out," he barked at Sasha.

Sasha didn't argue. She grabbed her bag and bolted.

Arturo locked the door. He turned on Cinnamon, advancing on her until she was pressed against the marble counter.

"I lock you in a house with armed guards, and you break out to... what? Interrogate my paid distractions?" he shouted. "Do you have a death wish?"

"I wanted to see!" Cinnamon yelled back, shoving his chest. "I wanted to see you buying your new girlfriend!"

"She is a decoy!"

"Is she? Or am I the decoy?" Cinnamon's eyes were full of tears. "Tiffany told me about the money, Arturo. The hidden money. Is that why you kept me? Is that why you kissed me? Because I'm the password to some stolen fortune?" She subtly turned on the high-fidelity digital recorder in her pocket, a discreet device she'd kept from her auction house days, designed to capture quiet negotiations in noisy rooms.

Arturo went completely still. The anger vanished, replaced by a cold, deadly focus.

He grabbed her shoulders. "What did you say?"

"The account," she whispered. "Is it true?"

He covered her mouth with his hand. His eyes darted to the vents, to the mirrors.

"Never," he hissed, his voice a vibration against her skin. "Never say those words aloud. Do you understand me?"

Cinnamon stared at him over his hand.

He didn't deny it.

He was terrified. Not of losing her love. But of being caught.

He was just like her father.