The atmosphere at Vanguard Design was toxic. Ever could taste it in the air the moment she stepped off the elevator.

She walked to her cubicle. Her desk was a disaster zone. Her sketches-weeks of work-were soaked in brown liquid. A puddle of coffee dripped steadily onto the carpet.

Zoe was leaning against the filing cabinet, buffing her nails.

"Oops," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I tripped. Clumsy me."

Ever's hands curled into fists at her sides. She wanted to scream. She wanted to grab Zoe by her perfect blonde hair and slam her face into the desk.

But she didn't. She couldn't afford to lose this job. It was her only connection to the outside world, her only source of income that wasn't directly monitored by Garrick (or so she thought).

"It's fine," Ever said, her voice dead. "I have backups."

She didn't have backups.

Her desk phone rang.

"Line 1," Miles called out from his office, his door open. He was watching her.

Ever picked up. "This is Ever."

"Quit."

Garrick's voice was abrupt.

"What?"

"Miles told me what that bitch did to your work. I won't have it. Pack your things. You're done."

"I am not quitting," Ever hissed, turning her back to Zoe. "This is my job, Garrick. It's the only thing that's mine."

"Everything you have is mine," Garrick corrected calmly. "Including the chair you're sitting in. I own the building, Ever. Quit, or I'll have Miles fire you."

"You are unbelievable."

Ever slammed the phone down. The plastic receiver rattled in its cradle.

Silence descended on the office. Everyone stared. No one hung up on Garrick Head.

Zoe laughed. "Trouble in paradise? Did Daddy cut off the allowance?"

"Go to hell, Zoe," Ever muttered, grabbing a roll of paper towels to sop up the coffee.

"Without him, you're nothing," Zoe sneered, stepping closer. "You're just a foster rat in a designer dress."

The insult stung because it was true.

At 5:00 PM, a roar echoed from the street below. A low, mechanical growl that vibrated the windows.

Ever looked down. A Bugatti Veyron, black and lethal, was parked in the loading zone.

Miles leaned against the hood, wearing sunglasses, looking like a movie star. A crowd had already gathered.

Zoe squealed. "Is that for me? I matched with him on Raya last week!"

She rushed to the window, preening.

Ever grabbed her purse and headed for the stairs, trying to sneak out the back. But Miles saw her through the glass lobby doors.

"Ever!" he shouted. His voice carried over the traffic.

Ever froze on the sidewalk.

"Get in!" Miles yelled, opening the passenger door. "Garrick says we're going ring shopping!"

The street went silent. Her coworkers, pressed against the glass, gasped. Zoe's face turned a mottled shade of purple.

"Ring shopping?" someone whispered. "He's proposing?"

Ever marched over to the car, her face burning. "You are enjoying this way too much," she hissed at Miles.

"Garrick said you were having a bad day," Miles grinned, revving the engine. "He told me to come make a scene. Did it work?"

"I hate you both."

Ever got in. As they pulled away, she saw a familiar Porsche parked across the street. Spencer Cole was behind the wheel. He wasn't smiling. He was typing furiously on his phone.

Ding.

Garrick's phone, miles away in a boardroom, lit up.

Spencer: Your bird is hopping into Miles's car. Looks cozy.

Miles drove them to a private members' club on the Upper East Side. "Garrick is meeting us here. Drinks first, then the jeweler."

They got out. Spencer Cole was already there, leaning against the entrance pillars, smoking a cigar. He must have followed them.

"Well, well," Spencer drawled, blowing smoke in Ever's direction. "If it isn't the community chest."

Ever stopped. "Excuse me?"

Spencer smirked, stepping into her personal space. He smelled of brandy and entitlement. "Garrick's done with you, right? That's why you're with Miles? How much for a night, sweetheart? I've always wondered if the goods were worth the price."

He reached out, his hand moving toward her face.

Her blood turned to ice.

"Spencer, back off," Miles warned, stepping forward.

"Relax, Miles. I just want to sample the merchandise."

Spencer's fingers were an inch from Ever's cheek.

Spencer's hand never made contact.

A hand-large, tanned, and wearing a Patek Philippe watch-shot out from nowhere and grabbed Spencer's wrist.

Garrick.

He didn't look angry. He looked bored. Which was infinitely more terrifying.

"Touch her," Garrick said softly, "and you lose the hand."

He shoved Spencer backward. Spencer stumbled, nearly dropping his cigar.

"Jesus, G," Spencer laughed nervously, rubbing his wrist. "It was a joke. You're so uptight lately."

Garrick pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hand, methodically cleaning each finger as if he had touched rotting meat. He didn't look at Spencer. He dropped the handkerchief on the ground, a silent, devastating insult.

"Change," Garrick said to Ever, not looking at Spencer. "We're playing polo."

He steered her into the club, his hand heavy on the small of her back. She could feel the tension radiating off him. His muscles were coiled tight, like a spring ready to snap.

In the women's locker room, Ever changed into the riding gear he had pre-ordered for her. White breeches, tall leather boots. Through the thin wall, she heard Spencer's voice in the men's locker room.

"Stupid bitch," Spencer was yelling. Then a slap. A sharp, wet sound. Then sobbing.

Ever froze, one boot half on. It was his date. The girl he had brought.

Her stomach churned. It sounded like St. Mary's. It sounded like the nights Clay had to fight off the older boys.

Ever walked out to the stables. The smell of hay and horse manure was grounding. It was the one smell money couldn't synthesize.

"I didn't know you could ride," Garrick said, watching her approach.

"I learned... at a summer camp," Ever lied. She learned on a swaybacked mare named Bessie at the orphanage farm. She was the only living thing that didn't judge her.

Garrick mounted a massive black stallion. He gestured for the groom to help Ever up onto a mare, but she swung herself up into the saddle before the groom could touch her.

Garrick raised an eyebrow. "Impressive."

He rode up beside her. He reached over, correcting her grip on the reins. His chest pressed against her back, his arm encircling her. It looked like instruction. It felt like a cage.

"You're mine, Ever," he whispered into her hair. "My canary. You only fly where I tell you."

Ever stared straight ahead, feeling the bile rise in her throat.

They rode out onto the field. Spencer was there, mounted on a grey gelding. He looked angry. Humiliated.

The game began. It wasn't a real match, just a scrimmage, but Spencer was playing dirty. He cut off Ever's line twice.

Then, on a straightaway, he veered. He spurred his horse, slamming its shoulder into Ever's mare's flank.

Her horse stumbled. Ever lost a stirrup. She teetered, the ground rushing up to meet her.

A strong arm grabbed her bicep. Garrick. He had anticipated the move. He hauled her upright, steadying her horse with brute strength.

"Are you insane?" Garrick roared at Spencer.

"Oops," Spencer smirked. "Horse spooked."

They rode back to the sidelines. Spencer dismounted and stormed over to his date, a young girl with tear-streaked makeup holding a water bottle.

"You're too slow!" Spencer yelled. He slapped the bottle out of her hand. Then he grabbed her arm, shaking her.

The girl cried out.

Something inside Ever snapped. The fear vanished, replaced by a white-hot rage. She saw herself in that girl. She saw every woman who had ever been bullied by a man with a checkbook.

Ever slid off her horse and ran over.

"Let her go!" Ever screamed.

She shoved Spencer. It was like shoving a wall, but he was so surprised he let go of the girl.

"Stay out of this, whore," Spencer spat. He raised his riding crop.

Ever flinched, closing her eyes, waiting for the sting.

The impact never came. Instead, she heard a sickening crunch.

Ever opened her eyes. Garrick was there. He hadn't just punched Spencer; he had executed a single, calculated strike to the nose that sent Spencer sprawling into the dirt. There was no wild rage in Garrick's movement, only a terrifying, clinical precision. He stood over his bleeding friend, his chest heaving slightly, looking less like a brawler and more like an executioner.

The entire club had gone silent.

Garrick Head, the billionaire who never lost his temper, had just drawn blood.

For Ever.

Spencer lay in the dirt, clutching his face, making a high-pitched keening noise.

"My nose! You broke my nose!"

Garrick didn't move to hit him again. He simply adjusted his cuffs, staring down at Spencer with eyes devoid of humanity.

"Say her name again," Garrick said, his voice a quiet, lethal drone. "Say one word about her, Spencer, and I will dismantle your father's company brick by brick. By tomorrow morning, your family will be destitute, and you will be in a cell. Do not test me."

Spencer went pale beneath the blood. He knew Garrick wasn't bluffing.

Ever stood there, trembling. Not from fear of Spencer anymore, but from fear of Garrick. The violence was so raw, so easily accessed.

Garrick turned to Ever, his expression hardening. He grabbed her wrist.

"We're leaving."

He dragged her to the car. He didn't open the door for her this time. He shoved her in.

"Are you stupid?" he yelled as the driver pulled away. "He had a crop! He could have blinded you!"

"He was hurting her!" Ever yelled back, rubbing her wrist. "I couldn't just watch!"

"She is paid to be there!" Garrick roared. "She knows the deal! It's a transaction, Ever! Just like you!"

The words hung in the air.

Just like you.

Ever went cold. All the fight drained out of her.

"Right," Ever whispered. "I forgot. I'm just an asset."

Garrick stopped. He looked at Ever, realizing what he had said. Regret flashed in his eyes, but his pride wouldn't let him apologize.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

Back at the apartment, the fight continued.

"You don't speak to men like Spencer," Garrick lectured, pacing the living room. "You don't challenge them. It puts you in danger."

"So I should just stand there and look pretty?" Ever asked quietly.

"Yes! That is your job!"

"I'm a canary," Ever said, her voice devoid of emotion. "Canaries don't speak. They just sing and die."

Garrick stared at her. He hated it when she went numb. He wanted the fire. He wanted the passion, even if it was anger.

He spun around and swept a Ming vase off the console table.

SMASH.

Porcelain shards exploded across the floor.

Ever didn't flinch. She just looked at the pieces.

"Clean it up," Garrick said, breathing hard. "And don't leave this apartment until I tell you."

He stormed into his study and slammed the door.

Ever knelt on the floor. She picked up a shard of blue and white porcelain. It was sharp. She pressed her thumb against the edge until a bead of blood welled up.

Leo.

If Garrick could do this to his best friend... what would he do to Clarence? What would he do to her son if he found out?

Ever cleaned the floor in silence.

Late that night, Ever lay in the guest room. She could hear Garrick pacing in the hallway. He stopped outside her door. She saw the shadow of his feet under the crack.

He stood there for five minutes. He wanted to come in. He wanted to apologize, or maybe just claim her again.

Ever held her breath, clutching the burner phone under the covers.

Google Flights: New York to Zurich.

His shadow moved away. He didn't come in.