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.

Three months ago. The August sun beat down on the Hamptons, the air thick with the smell of sea salt and coconut tanning oil.

Ellie wore a simple white linen sundress.

She sat on a wooden bench at the far edge of the Meadow Club's outdoor patio.

A thick macroeconomics textbook rested in her lap.

She kept her head down, deliberately ignoring the loud, wealthy crowd gathered on the main lawn.

A charity tennis exhibition match had just finished.

The crowd erupted into polite, overly enthusiastic clapping.

In the center of the clay court stood Ansel.

He wore a crisp white tennis polo and shorts.

Sweat dripped down his sharp cheekbones and soaked the collar of his shirt.

He was surrounded by a circle of young heiresses and junior investment bankers.

The boredom on his face was palpable.

Ansel tossed his expensive racket to a teenage ball boy.

A blonde girl in a designer dress held out a cold towel to him.

He ignored her completely and walked off the court, heading toward the quiet edge of the patio.

He walked up the stone steps.

His blue eyes scanned the empty tables until they locked onto the girl sitting alone in the corner.

Ellie was highlighting a paragraph in her book.

She did not notice the sudden drop in noise as Ansel walked away from his fans.

Ansel stopped right in front of her bench.

He shifted his stance, intentionally blocking the sunlight that was hitting her pages.

Suddenly, a shadow fell over her textbook.

Ellie frowned.

She followed the line of the long, muscular legs standing in front of her.

She looked all the way up until she met a pair of amused, ocean-blue eyes.

Ansel shoved one hand into his pocket.

"Reading economics in the Hamptons is a tragic waste of a summer day," he said, his voice dripping with lazy arrogance.

Ellie did not blush or stutter.

She calmly closed the heavy textbook.

"Far more productive," she replied, "than strutting around a tennis court like a peacock looking for a mate."

The barb pierced straight through his inflated ego.

He blinked, genuinely surprised.

Then, a low, genuine laugh rumbled in his chest.

Instead of walking away, he sat down heavily on the bench right next to her.

His broad shoulder brushed against hers, invading her personal space.

Ansel glanced at the plain leather watch on her wrist.

His eyes calculated her net worth in a single second.

"Which family brought you here as their plus-one?" he asked, his tone laced with condescension.

Ellie felt a hot flash of anger in her chest.

She sat up perfectly straight, refusing to shrink away from him.

"My aunt is Marion Bancroft. And it seems your manners are not as impressive as your backhand."

Ansel's eyes darkened.

The lazy amusement vanished, replaced by the sharp focus of a predator spotting a challenge.

He stood up suddenly.

He walked over to a nearby table and picked up a spare tennis racket.

He pointed the frame of the racket toward the empty clay court.

"If you can last one single game against me, I will apologize for my manners."

He paused, a wicked smile spreading across his face.

"But if you lose, you owe me one unconditional favor."

Ellie looked past him.

A glance toward the clubhouse doors revealed her Aunt Marion, standing awkwardly while two older women whispered and pointed.

Ellie's stomach tightened.

She stood up and grabbed the racket from his hand.

She walked past him, heading straight for the baseline.

The crowd quickly noticed the commotion and gathered around the fences.

Ansel served the first ball easily, barely using any power.

He expected her to miss.

Ellie stepped into the swing and hit a brutal, perfectly angled forehand straight down the line.

The ball kicked up a cloud of chalk dust as it landed perfectly on the line.

Ansel's smile dropped.

His body tensed, and the real game began.

For ten minutes, they traded vicious, heavy shots.

Ansel's power was overwhelming, pushing Ellie further and further behind the baseline.

His chest heaved as he leaped into the air for a final overhead smash.

The ball slammed into the clay, inches from Ellie's feet, and bounced over the fence.

Ansel landed on his feet.

He looked through the net at her, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

He flashed a victorious, predatory smile.

He had won his favor.

Later that night, a massive bonfire raged on a private Hamptons beach, its flames shooting high into the dark sky.

Ellie sat on a low canvas beach chair, far away from the heat of the fire.

She was only there because her younger cousin, Kian, had begged her to chaperone him.

Ansel sat in the center of the action, right next to the roaring fire.

Cases of expensive champagne and tequila were half-buried in the sand around him.

Sterling stood up and clapped his hands loudly.

"Let's play Spin the Bottle. Old school rules."

The crowd of wealthy twenty-somethings cheered.

Sterling placed an empty green Dom Pérignon bottle on a flat wooden serving tray in the sand.

He spun it hard.

The glass blurred as it spun in circles.

Ansel leaned his weight against Jax's shoulder.

He did not look at the spinning bottle.

His gaze, however, was locked on the solitary figure at the edge of the firelight.

The bottle slowed down.

It stopped, the neck pointing directly at Ansel's boots.

The girls around the fire sat up straighter, fixing their hair and smiling at him.

Ansel stood up slowly.

He brushed the loose sand off the knees of his dark jeans.

He did not choose any of the girls waiting in the circle.

Turning his back on the fire, he started walking toward the darkness where Ellie sat.

The loud chatter around the fire died down.

Everyone turned their heads, watching his tall figure move across the sand.

Ellie was looking down at her phone screen.

A large shadow fell over her, blocking out the light from the fire.

She looked up.

Ansel was standing over her, his hands resting on his hips.

"It is time to collect my favor from the tennis court," he said loudly.

Ellie frowned, confused.

"I am not playing your game."

Ansel bent down.

He placed his hands on the wooden armrests of her chair, caging her in completely.

"The winner decides the favor. And I want you to play."

A few feet away, Kian took a step forward to help his cousin.

Jax and Sterling immediately stepped in his path, shaking their heads to keep him back.

Ellie looked into Ansel's eyes.

In his eyes, the firelight danced, making his pupils look wild.

She knew causing a scene would only embarrass her aunt's family further.

She took a deep breath.

She tilted her chin up and closed her eyes, expecting a quick, polite kiss on the cheek.

Ansel did not move toward her cheek.

He lifted his hand and pressed his rough thumb against her jawline.

He tilted her face up higher, forcing her lips to part slightly.

He brought his mouth down and crushed his lips against hers.

It was clumsy, desperate, and aggressive. It was also his first kiss.

A lifetime of dodging meaningless physical intimacy, of saving himself for something real, had left him utterly terrified.

He masked his inexperience with force, pouring all his raw panic into the pressure of his mouth.

Ellie gasped against his lips.

Her brain short-circuited.

Her hands flew up on instinct, grabbing the front of his cotton shirt to steady herself.

The crowd around the fire erupted into loud whistling and screaming.

Ansel kept his mouth pressed to hers for a full sixty seconds.

When he finally pulled back, both of their chests were heaving.

Ansel's eyes were dark and heavy with real desire.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He turned, casting a dark, territorial glare at the stunned crowd. He didn't shout. Instead, his voice was a low growl meant only for the inner circle, his lips brushing her ear. "This week, you're mine."

Ellie stared at his sharp profile.

She touched her swollen lips with her fingertips.

She decided right then to treat this absurd week as nothing more than a temporary social experiment.