Harper was marched down a plush, velvet-lined corridor in the VIP wing. Her hand was wrapped in a rag she'd found backstage, but the blood was already soaking through.

"Move," the guard grunted, shoving her shoulder.

She stumbled, her patience fraying. She calculated the strike points on his neck. Carotid sinus. Vagus nerve. She could drop him in three seconds. But there were cameras everywhere.

Suddenly, the corridor ahead erupted into chaos.

A door to one of the private suites burst open. A group of men spilled out, shouting.

"Help! Someone call 911!"

A heavy-set man in a tuxedo lay on the carpet, clawing at his chest. His face was the color of putty, his lips tinged blue. He was making a horrible gurgling sound.

The guards stopped, unsure what to do.

Harper looked at the man. Mr. King. She recognized him from the tabloids. Hedge fund manager.

He wasn't breathing.

"He's coding!" a woman screamed.

A waiter dropped to his knees and started pushing on the man's stomach.

"No!" Harper shouted. "You're going to rupture his spleen! Stop!"

She didn't think. She couldn't help it. It was the Solis curse-they couldn't watch people die.

Harper shoved past her guards. They were too distracted to stop her. She sprinted to the fallen man and dropped to her knees, shoving the waiter aside.

"Back off!" she commanded. Her voice had a steel edge that made everyone freeze.

Harper ripped open Mr. King's shirt buttons. His chest was silent. No rise and fall. She pressed her fingers to his neck. No pulse.

"He's gone," someone whispered.

"Not yet," Harper muttered.

She didn't start CPR. There wasn't time. His heart had likely stopped or was in a useless rhythm. He needed a shock, but there was no AED.

She needed to restart his heart manually. A long shot, but the only one he had.

With her bloody hand, she reached into a hidden pocket in her sleeve and palmed a tiny, sealed vial containing a high-dose stimulant. It was a last resort, something she'd synthesized for Nana's worst angina attacks.

"What is she doing?" a guard shouted, reaching for his gun.

"Let her."

The voice came from the end of the hall. It was calm, cold, and carried absolute authority.

Harper didn't look up. She knew that voice.

Her movements were a blur. She tilted King's head back, pinched his nose, and using a small, one-way valve she also carried, blew two sharp breaths into his lungs. Then, she positioned the heel of her good hand over his sternum.

With a sharp cry, she delivered a single, powerful precordial thump-a controlled strike designed to mechanically jolt the heart. As her hand came down, her other hand, the one with the vial, discreetly pressed against a major artery in his neck, the thin needle of the auto-injector piercing the skin for a fraction of a second.

One second. Two. Three.

Mr. King's body arched off the floor. He let out a massive, ragged gasp, sucking in air like a drowning man breaking the surface.

Color flooded back into his cheeks. His eyes flew open, terrified.

The hallway went dead silent.

Harper slumped back, the adrenaline crashing. She quickly tucked the empty vial back into her sleeve, a secret kept in the chaos.

"Get him to a hospital," she said, standing up. Her legs felt shaky.

She turned to leave, hoping to disappear in the confusion.

A hand clamped around her wrist. Her bad wrist. The one she'd cut on the wire.

Harper gasped in pain and spun around.

She was staring into the ice-blue eyes of Finn Burke.

He was sitting in his wheelchair, blocking the path. He looked older than ten years ago. His jaw was sharper, covered in a shadow of stubble. His shoulders were broad under his suit jacket. But the eyes... the eyes were the same.

He looked at her bleeding hand, then at her face. He reached out and tugged down the hood of her bodysuit.

"Hello, Harper," he said softly.

The sound of her name on his tongue made Harper's skin crawl.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a checkbook. He scribbled something on it, tore it out, and held it up.

It was a check for five hundred thousand dollars.

"For the show," he said, his lip curling. "And for saving Mr. King. Though I daresay the world would have been better off without him."

Harper stared at the check. "Five hundred thousand?"

"Is that not your rate?" He tilted his head. "You risked your life on a wire for peanuts. You saved a billionaire with a punch to the chest. You're quite the bargain."

He was mocking her. He knew she needed the money. He knew everything.

"I need fifty thousand," Harper said, her voice trembling with rage. "For Nana Rose."

Finn's expression didn't change. "I know."

He let go of her wrist, wiping her blood off his fingers with a silk handkerchief.

"Follow me."

The alley behind the Vesper Club was dark, smelling of rain and garbage.

Harper backed away from Finn, her back hitting the damp brick wall.

"I'm not going anywhere with you," she spat. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the check he had given her. She ripped it into confetti and threw it at his feet. "I don't want your money."

Finn watched the pieces of paper flutter to the wet asphalt. He looked bored.

"You have spirit. I'll give you that," he said. "But you don't have leverage."

He pressed a button on his armrest.

Two black SUVs roared to life at the mouth of the alley, blocking the exit. Their headlights blinded Harper.

"What do you want?" She shielded her eyes.

"I want to discuss your grandmother's surgery."

Harper's blood ran cold. "What did you do?"

"I paid for it," Finn said simply. "Dr. Evans is scrubbing in right now. The deposit is paid. The VIP suite is booked."

Harper felt a wave of dizziness. "Why?"

"Because now you owe me."

Silas stepped forward out of the darkness, holding a thick document bound in blue leather. He handed it to Harper.

"What is this?"

"A personal services contract," Finn said. "An agreement of indebted servitude. Since you are... financially unstable, and given our shared history, I have taken the liberty of drafting the terms of your employment."

"You can't do that! I won't sign it!"

"You will." He paused, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Your juvenile record is sealed, isn't it? The one detailing the accusations of aggravated battery and reckless endangerment from that night. It would be a shame if a certain judge, a friend of the family, were to unseal it. No college, no decent job, just the girl who crippled the last Burke heir."

"I didn't push you!" Harper screamed. "Ciera did!"

"The law disagrees." Finn rolled closer. The wheels of his chair hissed on the wet pavement. "Here are the terms. You live at Burke Manor. You work for me. You do not leave without permission. You do not speak to anyone without permission. In exchange, Rose Solis gets the best cardiac care money can buy. If you refuse..."

He shrugged. "I pull the funding. The surgery stops. She dies."

It wasn't a choice. It was an execution.

Harper looked at the contract. The words swam before her eyes. Total obedience. Indefinite term.

Her phone buzzed. A video message. It was a live feed of Nana Rose being wheeled into an operating room. She looked peaceful.

Harper looked at Finn. He was a monster. A beautiful, broken monster.

"Give me the pen," she whispered.

She signed her name on the damp paper. The ink bled slightly. Harper Solis.

"Good girl." Finn reached out. His fingers brushed Harper's chin, tilting her face up. His touch was electric, shocking. "Welcome home, Harper."

He gestured to the guards. "Put her in the car."

They grabbed Harper's arms. She didn't fight. She felt numb. They shoved her into the back of the Maybach.

The door slammed shut. The lock clicked.

The scent of cedar and rain filled the car. Finn transferred himself from his wheelchair into the seat beside Harper with practiced ease.

The car began to move. Harper watched the city lights blur, realizing she had just sold her soul to the devil for a heart bypass.

The interior of the Maybach was silent as a tomb.

Harper pressed herself against the door, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. Finn was reading news on a tablet, his face illuminated by the blue glow of the screen. He seemed completely at ease, while Harper felt like she was vibrating out of her skin.

"Fifty million dollars," he said suddenly.

Harper blinked. "What?"

He didn't look up. "That's the estimated cost of my medical bills over the last ten years. Surgeries. Rehabilitation. Retrofitting the manor. The exoskeleton prototypes."

He turned to look at Harper then. "That is the debt you owe me, Harper."

"I... I can't pay that."

"I know. You're worth nothing." His words were factual, not emotional, which made them hurt more. "So, we will work out a payment plan in trade."

"Trade?" Harper's stomach dropped. "I won't... I won't sleep with you."

Finn laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound. "Don't flatter yourself. I have no interest in the girl who crippled me."

He gestured to his legs, covered by a cashmere blanket. "You broke them. You fix them."

"I'm not a doctor," Harper lied.

"You're a liar," he countered. "I saw what you did to King. You have skills. You will be my personal caretaker. You will be on call twenty-four seven. You will manage my pain. You will help me bathe. You will help me dress."

"You have nurses for that."

"I fired them. I want you." His eyes darkened. "I want you to see the damage you caused. Every single day."

The car slowed. They were turning off the highway, onto the private road that led to the cliffs.

The iron gates of Burke Manor loomed out of the mist. They groaned as they opened, like the jaws of a beast.

The car stopped in the circular driveway.

The door opened. Silas was there with the wheelchair.

Harper stepped out into the drizzle. A line of staff stood on the steps. They looked at her with open hostility. They remembered. Everyone remembered.

"The Prodigal Daughter returns," Finn mocked as he settled into his chair.

They entered the grand foyer. The marble floor was checkered black and white. A massive chandelier hung overhead.

Harper's eyes were drawn upward, to the second-floor balcony that overlooked the hall.

The fall.

She could almost hear the scream.

Harper stopped walking, her breath hitching.

Finn stopped too. He spun his chair around. "Enjoying the view?"

"I didn't do it," Harper said. Her voice was quiet but firm. "Ciera pushed me."

The air in the room dropped ten degrees.

Finn rolled toward Harper until his knees were touching her shins. He grabbed her wrist.

"Do not," he hissed, "say her name in this house. Ciera is a saint. She tried to save you. You... you are the rot at the center of this family."

He released Harper with a shove.

"Get her out of my sight," he ordered the head housekeeper. "Put her in the Tower Room."