A groan from the heavy brass hinges of the mahogany door cut through the room, making the jazz music feel like it skipped a beat.

Every man in the VIP room stopped talking at the exact same time.

Four pairs of eyes snapped toward the entrance.

Framed in the doorway, the hall light spilling over her shoulders, Ellie was a flawless porcelain figure, completely untouched by the heavy atmosphere of the room.

She stepped inside, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood border of the carpet.

Ansel was slumped low on the sofa.

At the sight of her, Ansel's entire body went rigid.

His pupils dilated so fast the blue of his eyes almost vanished.

His hand shot out on instinct, grabbing his phone off the table.

His grip on the metal casing was so tight his joints popped in the sudden quiet.

Jax took a sip of his bourbon and inhaled sharply.

The liquor caught in his throat, and he started coughing violently.

Ellie ignored Jax.

She kept her eyes locked on Ansel and walked straight toward the leather sofa.

Right behind her, Bryan rushed in, a sick, excited grin on his face as he anticipated the explosion.

Sterling shifted his weight, sliding further back into his armchair as if trying to escape the blast zone.

Ellie stopped right in front of Ansel's knees.

She looked down at him.

For the first time, she saw it: raw panic bleeding through the arrogant mask on his face.

Ansel's Adam's apple bobbed hard.

He opened his mouth, his brain scrambling for a smooth lie to cover his tracks.

"Ellie, I-"

"I am so sorry to interrupt your boys' night," Ellie said.

Her voice was soft, sweet, and perfectly measured.

Bryan stepped forward, unable to keep his mouth shut.

"Did you hear something you shouldn't have out in the hall, Ellie?"

Ansel's head snapped toward Bryan.

His eyes were lethal, silently promising violence if Bryan spoke another word.

But it was too late.

Ellie turned her head and met Bryan's malicious stare.

"I did," she confirmed, offering him a polite nod. "I heard the pitch for the... limited-time engagement."

The temperature in the room plummeted.

Ansel stopped breathing entirely.

It felt like a giant hand had reached into his chest and crushed his lungs.

Bryan crossed his arms, waiting for the screaming and the tears.

Ellie simply reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"It is a very creative metaphor," she said lightly.

She turned her attention back to Ansel.

"When the performance ends," she asked, her eyes wide and innocent, "do you think that recommendation letter could get me an interview at Goldman Sachs? The investment banking division, specifically."

The room went dead silent.

Sterling's jaw dropped, his unlit cigar slipping from his fingers to land on the rug. Jax, who had been leaning against the bar, slowly lowered his glass, a look of utter disbelief freezing on his face.

Bryan's grin froze.

He stared at Ellie like she was an alien.

He couldn't comprehend it: a girl with no trust fund, negotiating a job reference instead of begging for love.

Ansel stared up at her.

He searched her clear, calm eyes for any sign of a crack.

He looked for a trembling lip or a forced smile.

He found absolutely nothing.

In that exact second, a cold, terrifying wave of panic crashed over him as he realized he had never held the reins.

Logic evaporated, replaced by a primal need to break her calm, to force a reaction.

Ansel lunged forward.

He grabbed her thin wrist with a bruising grip.

He pulled her hard, dragging her forward until she lost her balance.

Ellie fell right into his lap.

She did not fight him.

She let her body settle against his hard thighs, even lifting her arms to wrap them loosely around the back of his neck.

Ansel buried his face into the side of her neck.

He bit down gently on her earlobe, his breath hot and ragged against her skin.

"What kind of game are you playing?" he whispered, his voice shaking with anger and fear.

Ellie rested her cheek against his temple.

"I am fulfilling my duty as your zero-maintenance girlfriend," she whispered back.

The logic of her words felt like a knife twisting in his gut.

Ansel could not take another word from her mouth.

He grabbed the back of her head, twisted his body, and smashed his lips against hers in a desperate, punishing kiss.

It was the kiss of a drowning man, trying to pull the air straight from her lungs.

His hand was tangled in her hair, holding her head in place.

When he finally pulled back, his chest was heaving.

He stared at her lips, waiting for a reaction.

Though her lipstick was smeared at the corner of her mouth, her eyes were as clear and steady as a frozen lake.

She placed her hands flat against his chest and pushed herself up.

She stood up slowly, smoothing the front of her silk dress.

With a casual flick of her thumb, she wiped the smeared lipstick from her skin.

She picked up her Prada clutch from the edge of the table.

She looked around the room, offering a polite smile to the stunned men.

"I have an early seminar tomorrow. I need to get home. Have a good night, gentlemen."

A tremor ran through Ansel's leg muscles.

His body wanted to stand up, to follow her, to beg her to stay.

Digging his nails into his own palms, he forced himself to remain seated.

He looked at Jax, his face a mask of cold stone.

"Tell the valet to bring the car around for her."

Ellie did not look back at him.

She turned and walked out the door, her heels clicking softly until she disappeared down the hall.

The heavy door clicked shut behind her.

The air in the room instantly felt ten degrees colder.

Bryan let out a nervous, loud laugh.

"Wow. You really have her trained well, Ansel. She didn't even shed a tear."

Ansel did not look at him.

He reached up and slowly unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt.

He needed air.

He picked up his half-empty glass of bourbon from the table.

Without a word, he flicked his wrist.

Ice and dark liquor arced through the air, splashing directly onto Bryan's custom leather shoes.

Bryan jumped back, letting out a high-pitched yelp.

"What the hell, man?" Bryan yelled, looking down at the mess.

Ansel stood up.

His six-foot-two frame towered over the table.

He did not say a single word.

He walked past Sterling and Jax, his boots hitting the floor with heavy, menacing thuds.

He walked out of the VIP room.

Bryan's face burned red with humiliation.

He wiped his shoes with a napkin and stormed out into the hallway after Ansel.

"You can't just do that and walk away!" Bryan shouted to Ansel's back.

The hallway was empty.

The dim wall sconces cast long shadows across the carpet.

Bryan took three fast steps, reaching his hand out to grab Ansel's shoulder.

Ansel spun around faster than Bryan could blink.

Ansel's hand shot out and grabbed the knot of Bryan's silk tie.

With a violent shove, he slammed Bryan backward, his knuckles scraping brutally against the rough molding of the wall. He didn't even flinch as the skin tore.

Bryan's back hit the wood-paneled wall with a sickening thud.

The breath was knocked out of Bryan's lungs.

His feet dangled an inch off the ground.

Ansel pressed his forearm directly against Bryan's windpipe.

Gone was the lazy, arrogant playboy mask.

In its place was pure, unhinged rage, turning his eyes black.

He leaned in until his nose was inches from Bryan's face.

"Even if she is just a convenience to me," Ansel whispered, his voice vibrating with lethal intent.

"She is still mine."

Ansel pressed his forearm harder against the throat.

Bryan's face started to turn a dark shade of purple.

"If you ever speak to her again, or even look in her direction, I will personally see to it that your father's hedge fund is liquidated by Friday."

Bryan's eyes bulged with terror.

He clawed frantically at Ansel's arm, making a wet, choking sound in the back of his throat.

The VIP room door opened.

Sterling stepped out and froze, his eyes wide as he took in the violent scene.

Ansel felt Sterling's presence.

He looked at Bryan with absolute disgust and opened his hand.

Bryan collapsed onto the carpet like a broken doll, gasping loudly for air.

Ansel reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a crisp white handkerchief.

He wiped his fingers with the handkerchief as if he had just touched raw sewage.

He dropped the dirty cloth directly onto Bryan's face.

Ansel adjusted the bottom of his suit jacket and walked toward the private elevator without looking back.

As the private elevator doors slid open into the underground parking garage, the cold concrete air hit Ansel's face.

A violent energy still hummed under his skin.

He walked toward the sleek black Maybach waiting near the exit.

The driver stood by the rear door, holding it open.

Ansel ducked his head and slid into the spacious backseat.

The heavy door slammed shut behind him.

The roar of a sports car driving past was instantly cut off.

The inside of the Maybach was dead silent.

On the far side of the car sat Ellie.

Her shoulder was pressed against the cold glass of the window.

She was staring out at the concrete pillars of the garage.

The chasm of empty leather between them made the knot in Ansel's chest pull tighter.

The car pulled smoothly out of the garage and merged onto the busy Manhattan streets.

Neon lights from the storefronts flashed across the dark leather interior.

Ansel could not stand the silence.

He reached his long arm across the empty space.

He aimed for her hand resting quietly on her knee.

But just as his fingertips brushed the air above her skin, she moved.

She casually lifted her hand and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear.

Ansel's hand grabbed nothing but air.

His arm hovered awkwardly over the seat.

He slowly pulled his hand back, his jaw clenching hard.

He shifted his weight, sliding across the leather until he was sitting right next to her.

"Are you angry about what happened in the room?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.

Ellie turned her head.

She gave him a flawless, polite smile.

"Not at all. I understand the social rules of the Upper East Side."

She tilted her head slightly.

"But next time you need to put on a performance for your friends, you should give me the script in advance. I want to make sure I hit my marks."

The words hit Ansel like a physical blow to the chest.

Her cool, detached tone was a thousand times worse than a scream.

He ground his back teeth together.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her toward his chest.

Ellie did not thrash or fight.

She simply raised her free hand and placed her palm flat against his shoulder.

She kept exactly three inches of space between their bodies.

"The driver is right there, Ansel," she said softly. "Please maintain a safe distance while the car is moving."

Ansel glanced at the thick, black privacy partition separating them from the front seat.

"The partition is up. He cannot see or hear anything."

Ellie did not lower her hand.

She kept her arm locked, maintaining the physical wall between them.

Her eyes were clear, showing absolutely no desire to close the gap.

Ansel let out a frustrated breath.

He let go of her wrist and fell back against his side of the seat.

He reached up and yanked his tie loose, pulling the silk away from his throat.

As he moved, the scent of his cologne filled the small space.

It was Tom Ford Oud Wood, heavy and rich.

But underneath the expensive wood scent, Ellie's nose caught something else.

The sharp, metallic scent of copper. Blood.

She knew from the raw skin on his knuckles that he had hit someone.

Ellie's eyebrows pulled together for a fraction of a second.

She turned her face back toward the window.

The steel cables of the Brooklyn Bridge blurred past the glass.

Her brain started to calculate exactly how this relationship had spiraled so far out of control.

That scent, the Oud Wood, was a hook in her brain.

It dragged her thoughts backward, away from the cold car.

It pulled her back to three months ago.

Back to the summer heat.

Back to the day she was just an outsider visiting her aunt.

In her mind, the phantom smell of salt water and expensive sunscreen replaced the stench of blood.

Ellie closed her eyes, letting the memory of the tennis court take over.