The heavy bass from the club vibrated through the concrete pavement, traveling up Harley's boots and into her bones. She stood in the dark, trash-filled alley behind "The Apex," Manhattan's most exclusive underground club.

She pulled open the heavy steel service door. The smell of stale beer, sweat, and cheap cologne hit her face.

Harley walked down the dimly lit employee corridor, keeping her head down. She dodged two drunk men in expensive suits who were stumbling out of a bathroom. She pulled her phone from her pocket and opened her messages.

She typed: I'm inside. Where is the audition room?

A few seconds later, Brenda replied: VVIP 9. It's in the unfinished section on the third floor. Hurry.

Harley frowned. Her thumb hovered over the screen. Why would a major studio hold a stunt audition in an unfinished, abandoned section of a club? A cold prickle of unease ran down her spine. But she thought of the zero balance in her studio's bank account. She needed the money.

She shoved the phone back into her pocket and headed for the stairs.

When she pushed open the heavy acoustic door leading to the third floor, the deafening music instantly vanished. The silence was jarring. The air here was freezing and smelled heavily of drywall dust and mildew.

Harley walked down the dark hallway. At the very end, standing nervously by a door, was Brenda.

Brenda was clutching her phone with both hands. She kept looking over her shoulder, her eyes wide and panicked.

Harley walked up to her. "Where is the director?" Harley asked, her voice low.

Brenda jumped, startled. She wouldn't look Harley in the eye. She stared at Harley's shoes. "He's... he's inside. Waiting for you."

Harley's stomach tightened. Brenda's hands were shaking. The alarm bells in Harley's head were screaming now.

Harley reached out and pushed the heavy, self-locking fire door to VVIP 9 open. She stepped inside.

It was pitch black. There were no lights, no cameras, no crew. Just a massive, empty warehouse-like space filled with construction debris.

Harley spun around.

Brenda was already backing away into the hallway. She grabbed the heavy metal handle of the door and pulled it shut with all her weight.

"Brenda!" Harley yelled.

The heavy deadbolt mechanism, designed to lock automatically from the outside, engaged with a deafening CLANG.

The sound echoed in the dark room. Harley was locked in.

She rushed to the door and slammed her fists against the cold steel. "Brenda! Open the door! What are you doing?!"

Through the thick metal, Brenda's voice came out muffled and choked with tears. "I'm sorry, Harley. Alyssa threatened to blackball my entire agency. I have to eat. I have no choice."

The sound of Brenda's footsteps quickly faded down the hall.

Harley cursed under her breath. She pulled out her phone. No service. The thick concrete walls and steel doors acted as a perfect Faraday cage.

She closed her eyes, forcing her breathing to slow down. Panic would only waste oxygen. She turned on her phone's flashlight and swept the beam across the room.

It was a mess. Stacks of drywall, broken wooden pallets, and discarded sofas littered the floor. The air was stagnant and freezing.

She walked back to the door and pulled a metal hairpin from her hair. She kneeled down and shoved the pin into the keyhole, trying to pick the lock. She twisted it, but the internal mechanism was completely rusted and jammed. The pin snapped in half.

Harley threw the broken piece on the floor.

Suddenly, her ears caught a sound. It was faint. A ragged, shallow wheezing.

Harley froze. She turned her head slowly. The sound was coming from a dark corner of the room, under a large, dusty blue tarp.

Her muscles tensed. She quietly reached down and picked up a heavy, rusted steel pipe from the floor. She held it tightly in her right hand, her knuckles white. She walked silently toward the tarp.

She reached out with her left hand, grabbed the edge of the plastic, and ripped it away. She raised the pipe, ready to strike.

She stopped dead.

Curled up in a tight ball on the concrete floor was a little boy. He looked about five or six years old. He was wearing a miniature, incredibly expensive tailored suit, now covered in dust.

The boy looked up at her. His eyes were wide, filled with a pure, paralyzing terror. He looked like a trapped animal. He bit down on his lower lip so hard it was turning white. He didn't make a sound.

Harley immediately dropped the steel pipe. It clattered loudly on the floor, making the boy flinch and press himself harder into the corner.

Harley raised both hands, showing her empty palms. She slowly lowered herself into a crouch.

"Hey," Harley whispered, her voice dropping to a soft, soothing tone. "I'm not going to hurt you. I promise."

The boy didn't move. His chest heaved with rapid, shallow breaths. He was on the verge of a full panic attack.

Harley noticed his cheeks were flushed a deep, unnatural red. She slowly reached her hand out. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, anticipating a blow. Harley gently pressed the back of her hand against his forehead.

Her breath caught. His skin was burning hot. It felt like touching a radiator.

"You're burning up," Harley muttered. She looked into his terrified eyes. "What's your name? Where are your parents?"

The boy just stared at her. He kept his lip tightly between his teeth. He refused to speak.

Harley looked around the freezing, airtight room. If they stayed locked in here all night, a fever this high could cause a seizure. The kid could die.

She grabbed her flashlight and pointed it straight up.

Three meters above the floor, near the ceiling, was a large, rusted metal grate covering an HVAC ventilation duct.

Harley looked down at her heavy hoodie. She unzipped it and threw it on the floor, leaving her in just a tight black sports bra. The cold air bit into the scars on her waist.

She looked at the boy, her eyes hardening with absolute resolve. "We are getting out of here."

Harley moved quickly. She grabbed the heavy wooden crates scattered around the room and dragged them to the wall, directly under the air vent. The wood scraped harshly against the concrete.

With every crate she lifted, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through her left leg, echoing the trauma of the car crash. She gritted her teeth, ignoring the sweat forming on her forehead.

She stacked three crates on top of each other, creating a shaky, unstable staircase. She pressed her weight onto the bottom box. It creaked loudly but held.

Harley turned around. The little boy was still huddled in the corner, watching her every move.

She walked over to him and dropped to one knee. She held out her hand. "Come here," she said, her voice firm but gentle. "I need you to be brave right now."

Leo stared at her hand. He bit his lower lip again. Then, he looked up into Harley's eyes. He saw no pity, no anger-just a fierce determination. Slowly, his tiny, trembling hand reached out and grabbed her fingers.

Harley pulled him into her arms and stood up. The heat radiating off his small body was terrifying. He felt like a furnace.

She walked to the crates and stepped onto the first one. The wood groaned under their combined weight. Leo whimpered, burying his face into Harley's neck. His small arms wrapped tightly around her throat.

"Don't look down," Harley whispered.

She stepped up to the second crate, then the third. She was now standing precariously near the ceiling. She balanced Leo on her left hip, holding him tight with one arm.

With her right hand, she reached up and grabbed the rusted metal louvers of the vent grate. She pulled hard. The rust cracked, and the grate popped off, falling to the floor below with a loud crash.

A dark, narrow, dust-filled tunnel lay ahead.

"Okay, buddy," Harley said, lifting Leo up toward the opening. "You go first. Crawl inside. I'm right behind you."

Leo grabbed the edge of the metal duct and pulled himself in. He turned around, lying on his stomach in the dust. He reached his small hand back out, trying to grab Harley's fingers to pull her up.

Harley bent her knees, preparing to jump and grab the ledge.

CRACK.

The bottom wooden crate splintered and gave way. The entire stack collapsed instantly.

Gravity yanked Harley downward.

"No!" Harley gasped.

She threw both hands up and blindly grabbed the sharp metal lip of the ventilation duct. Her body slammed hard against the wall, her legs dangling in the air.

The sudden, violent jerk ripped through her left shoulder-the exact shoulder that had been crushed in the rollover accident five years ago.

A blinding, white-hot agony exploded in her joint. Harley let out a choked scream. Her vision went black at the edges. Her fingers started to slip on the dusty metal.

Inside the duct, Leo let out a panicked cry. He scrambled forward and grabbed the collar of Harley's sports bra with his tiny fists, trying desperately to hold her up.

Harley heard his cry. In that split second, her mind flashed back to the wreckage of her Ford sedan. The smell of blood. The absolute, crushing loneliness of waiting to die in the rain, knowing no one was coming to save her.

Not again, she thought. I am not dying in the dark.

A feral growl ripped from Harley's throat. She ignored the tearing sensation in her shoulder. Using every ounce of core strength she had developed as a stunt double, she swung her legs up, kicked against the wall, and violently hauled her torso over the metal ledge.

She tumbled forward into the duct, gasping for air.

The sharp, unfinished edge of the metal sliced deeply across her exposed stomach and waist. Warm blood instantly welled up, sliding down her skin.

Harley lay on her back in the cramped space, her chest heaving. She didn't look at the cut. She rolled over and pulled Leo close to her chest.

The dust in the duct was thick. Leo started to cough, a harsh, rattling sound.

Harley immediately pulled off the thin cotton t-shirt she wore under her sports bra. She wrapped it gently around Leo's nose and mouth. "Keep this on," she ordered softly.

She began to crawl forward on her elbows and knees. The metal was freezing. Every movement pulled at the fresh cut on her waist and the torn muscles in her shoulder.

They crawled in total darkness for what felt like hours, though it was only ten minutes. Finally, a faint, dirty yellow light appeared ahead.

They reached the end of the duct. It opened up over the alley behind the club, directly above the dumpsters.

Harley kicked the thin wire mesh covering the exit. It popped out easily. She stuck her head out. The drop was about two meters.

She pulled Leo out of the duct and held him against her chest. "Hold on tight," she whispered.

Harley took a deep breath and pushed herself out of the hole.

They fell through the air. Harley twisted her body mid-fall, ensuring her back faced the ground. She slammed hard into a pile of black trash bags filled with rotting food and cardboard.

The impact knocked the wind completely out of her lungs. Her internal organs felt like they had been violently shaken. She let out a low, painful groan.

Leo rolled off her chest, landing safely on a soft bag. He wasn't hurt.

He scrambled to his knees and looked at Harley. She was lying flat on the garbage, her face deathly pale, her waist covered in blood, her skin smeared with black dust.

Tears welled up in Leo's large eyes. He reached out his small, trembling hand. With the sleeve of his expensive suit, he clumsily wiped the dirty sweat from Harley's forehead.

Harley felt the soft touch. She opened her heavy eyelids and looked at the boy. The corners of her mouth twitched upward into a weak, exhausted smile.

"You're safe now," she whispered.

The adrenaline finally crashed. The pain from her shoulder, her bleeding waist, and her old leg injury hit her brain all at once. The world tilted sideways.

Harley raised a shaking finger and pointed toward the end of the alley. "Go... find help."

Her hand dropped to the trash bags. Her eyes rolled back, and the dark alley faded into absolute blackness.

Six massive, black Cadillac Escalades roared down the wet streets of Manhattan, ignoring every red light. Tires screeched as they slammed on their brakes, forming a solid blockade across the front entrance of "The Apex."

The street was instantly paralyzed. Horns blared from angry drivers, but the noise died the second the Escalade doors opened.

Over a dozen men in identical black suits stepped out. They moved with military precision, instantly securing every entrance and exit of the club.

The door of the center vehicle, a custom Rolls-Royce Phantom, was pulled open.

Jaidyn Miles stepped out. His expensive leather shoes splashed into a puddle on the asphalt. He wore a perfectly tailored midnight-blue suit. His face was a mask of absolute, terrifying calm, but the air around him felt like it had dropped below freezing.

Mickey O'Connell, the owner of the club, came running out the front doors. Sweat poured down his fat face. He bowed so low he almost folded in half.

"Mr. Miles! We are so honored-"

Jaidyn didn't even look at him. He walked straight past Mickey, his long strides eating up the distance to the doors.

Jaidyn stepped into the club. The heavy bass of the EDM music was vibrating the floorboards. Jaidyn raised two fingers.

Immediately, his security team stormed the DJ booth. The music was brutally cut off in the middle of a beat. The flashing strobe lights were killed, replaced by the harsh, bright house lights.

The crowded dance floor erupted in angry shouts. But as people turned and recognized the man standing at the entrance-the ruthless apex predator of Wall Street-a dead silence fell over the room.

Kian Miles, Jaidyn's younger brother, jogged down the stairs from the VIP lounge. His face was pale.

"Jaidyn," Kian said, his voice tight. "Leo slipped away from the detail. We can't find him."

Jaidyn's jaw locked. He reached out, grabbed Mickey O'Connell by the lapels of his tacky jacket, and lifted him onto his toes.

"You have three minutes to pull every camera feed in this building," Jaidyn said. His voice was barely a whisper, but it carried a lethal promise. "If my son is hurt, I will burn this place to the ground with you inside it."

Mickey's legs gave out. "Security room! Now!" he shrieked.

Jaidyn dropped him. They marched to the back office.

On the grainy security monitors, they watched the footage from thirty minutes ago. A tiny figure in a suit-Leo-wandered away from his distracted bodyguard. He pushed open the door to the unfinished third floor and disappeared down the dark hallway.

Jaidyn's eyes narrowed. He turned and sprinted out of the room, his security detail right behind him.

They reached the third floor. Jaidyn stood in front of the heavy acoustic door of VVIP 9. He saw the heavy deadbolt that had automatically locked from the outside when the door shut.

"Break it," Jaidyn ordered.

A bodyguard stepped forward and kicked the door right at the lock. The metal frame splintered, and the door flew open.

Jaidyn rushed in. The room was empty.

He looked at the floor. He saw the broken wooden crates. He followed the debris upward and saw the open ventilation duct near the ceiling.

Kian pressed his earpiece into his ear. "Team Two, sweep the back alley. Look for the HVAC exhaust vents."

Ten agonizing seconds passed. Then, the radio cracked.

"Boss. We found the boy. Alleyway."

Jaidyn spun around and ran. He tore through the club's kitchen, shoved the heavy metal back doors open, and stepped into the cold, damp alley.

Under the flickering yellow light of a broken streetlamp, Jaidyn saw him.

Leo was kneeling on a pile of garbage bags. For a child with severe PTSD who violently rejected physical contact from anyone-even his own father-what Jaidyn saw next made his heart stop.

Leo was gripping the hand of a woman lying unconscious on the trash. He was holding onto her like she was his lifeline.

Jaidyn rushed forward. "Leo!"

He reached down to pick his son up, to check him for injuries.

Leo let out a sharp, piercing scream. He violently slapped Jaidyn's hands away. He threw his small body over the woman's arm, glaring up at his father with fierce, protective anger. He pointed a shaking finger at the woman, refusing to move.

Jaidyn froze. He looked down at the woman for the first time.

She was covered in black dust. A nasty, bleeding gash ran across her stomach. She was wearing only a sports bra and sweatpants.

"Light," Jaidyn commanded.

A bodyguard stepped forward and clicked on a high-powered tactical flashlight, aiming the beam directly at the woman's face.

The bright light washed over her pale, dirt-streaked features.

Jaidyn's breath caught in his throat. His muscles locked up. The world around him vanished.

Behind him, Kian let out a sharp intake of breath. He stepped close to his brother, leaning in so only Jaidyn could hear. "Jaidyn," Kian whispered, his voice trembling with absolute shock. "It's her face. It's Amelie's face."

Jaidyn stared at the unconscious woman. The shape of her jaw, the curve of her nose, the dark, thick lashes resting on her pale cheeks. It was a ghost. It was the face of the woman he had buried years ago.

A violent storm of shock, grief, and a sudden, dark possessiveness erupted in Jaidyn's chest.

He slowly took off his custom suit jacket. He knelt down in the garbage, ignoring the filth. He wrapped the expensive wool jacket tightly around Harley's shivering, bleeding body, covering her exposed skin.

He slid his arms under her knees and behind her back, lifting her effortlessly against his chest. She was so light.

Jaidyn turned to Kian, his eyes cold and completely unreadable.

"Clear the top floor of the Miles Medical Center," Jaidyn ordered. "Now."