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.

The memory of the bonfire faded, replaced by the sleek, modern lines of Ansel's TriBeCa penthouse.

That week in the Hamptons had been a blur of performative affection and tense private negotiations, and he'd found her clinical composure utterly addictive.

The week in the Hamptons had ended.

Instead of following the expected protocol and putting her in a car back to Brooklyn, Ansel had brought her to the top floor of his Manhattan building.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire living room.

The glittering lights of the city spread out below them like a carpet of diamonds.

Ansel took off his suit jacket and threw it onto the white sofa.

He walked over to the black marble bar.

He poured two glasses of sparkling water over ice.

He walked back and handed one of the cold glasses to Ellie.

She stood by the glass wall, looking out at the city.

"We had a good week," Ansel said, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

"We should extend the arrangement here in the city."

Ellie took the glass.

The freezing condensation on the glass chilled her fingers, keeping her mind sharp.

She did not answer immediately.

Her brain ran through a rapid cost-benefit analysis.

Her uncle, Donovan, was trying to secure a massive investment through the Schultz family's network.

Bruising Ansel's ego now could jeopardize everything.

Plus, a small, curious part of her wanted to see how this elite world functioned from the inside.

Ellie turned her back to the window.

She looked directly into Ansel's confident face.

"New York is not the Hamptons, Ansel. There are no secrets here. The press watches everything you do."

Ansel let out a soft, dismissive laugh.

He thought she was worried about her reputation.

"I can protect you. I have private drivers. We can use the back entrances to restaurants. No one has to know."

The temperature in Ellie's eyes dropped to freezing.

She walked over to the bar.

She set the glass down on the marble with a loud, sharp crack.

She took two steps toward Ansel, closing the distance between them.

Her posture was perfectly straight.

"I will not be your hidden secret."

Each word was spoken slowly, a deliberate, percussive strike.

"If we do this, we walk through the front doors. We go to public dinners. I will not hide in the shadows like something you are ashamed of."

Ansel stared at her, completely stunned.

He had expected her to be grateful for his protection.

He expected her to accept whatever scraps of his time he offered.

Instead, she was dictating the terms of engagement.

He looked at the fierce, unyielding pride in her brown eyes.

Instead of anger, a thrill of genuine excitement shot down his spine.

She wasn't a toy. She was an opponent.

Ansel threw his head back and laughed.

It was a loud, joyous sound that echoed off the glass walls.

He reached out and grabbed her waist, pulling her flush against his chest.

He bowed his head until his forehead rested against hers.

"Fine," he whispered, his voice thick with possession. "I want to show you off to the whole damn city anyway."

The memory of his warm breath against her skin vanished instantly.

A jolt from the Maybach hitting a pothole shattered the memory, pulling Ellie back to the present.

The cold, tense air of the car surrounded her again.

Ansel was still sitting on his side of the seat, his jaw tight and angry.

Outside the tinted window, the familiar brownstone steps of her aunt's Brooklyn house came into view.

The car began to slow down.

In front of the wrought-iron gates of the Bancroft estate, the Maybach rolled to a smooth stop.

The engine settled into a low, quiet hum.

The driver stepped out immediately and opened the rear door.

Crisp autumn air rushed into the stale cabin, catching the hem of Ellie's silk dress.

Ellie picked up her Prada clutch from her lap.

She shifted her weight, ready to slide out of the car without a second glance.

Ansel's hand shot across the seat.

His large fingers wrapped around her wrist, his grip tight enough to cause a dull ache.

Ellie paused, her eyebrows pulling together slightly.

"Come back to the penthouse with me tonight," Ansel said.

His voice was low, laced with a desperation he couldn't quite hide.

Ellie did not turn her body toward him.

"Aunt Marion expects me inside before midnight. You know her rules."

Ansel let out a harsh, frustrated breath.

He hated the old-money rules that kept her from him, the invisible walls of the Bancroft house he couldn't breach.

He loosened his grip slightly, rubbing his thumb over the pulse point on her wrist.

"What about tomorrow? There is a private gallery showing in Long Island. I will have the car pick you up at noon."

Ellie pulled her wrist gently but firmly out of his grasp.

"I have to rewrite the final section of my thesis. I will be in the library all weekend."

The rejection hit Ansel hard.

Panic flared in his chest.

He reached out and grabbed her shoulder, turning her to face him.

"Ellie, stop pushing me away-"

Before he could finish his sentence, the screen of his phone, resting on the center console, lit up for a brief second.

A text message preview from his executive assistant flashed across the glass.

The message was brief but impossible to miss. Reminder: Isela L. pickup @ JFK tomorrow.

Ellie's eyes dropped to the screen naturally.

She read the words in a fraction of a second.

It was the final data point. The experiment was over.

Ansel saw the light from the screen reflect in her eyes.

He cursed under his breath and quickly flipped the phone face-down against the leather.

"It is just a corporate courtesy pickup," Ansel said quickly, his words rushing together. "The families do business together. It means nothing."

Ellie looked at him.

Two hours ago, he was laughing with his friends about marrying Isela.

Now, he was lying to her face.

Ellie let a soft, understanding smile spread across her face.

"Ansel, you don't need to explain. The Schultz family business is the most important thing. I completely understand."

Her voice was entirely free of jealousy.

Ansel stared at her perfect, smiling face.

He felt like he was suffocating.

He wanted her to scream at him. He wanted her to throw her purse at his head.

He needed a reaction, any proof that she cared he was picking up another woman.

He found nothing but polite indifference.

The absolute defeat crushed the remaining fight out of his body.

His hand fell away from her shoulder, dropping heavily onto his own lap.

Ellie smoothed the fabric of her dress where his hand had wrinkled it.

She leaned forward across the seat.

She pressed her lips against his cheek.

It was a light, dry, and utterly passionless kiss.

"Goodnight, Ansel."

She stepped out of the car, her heels clicking against the stone pavement.

Ansel sat frozen in the backseat.

He watched her walk up the steps and disappear behind the heavy wooden door.

A physical ache bloomed in his chest.

He slammed his fist violently against the leather seat.

"Drive," he barked at the driver. "Get me out of here."

Inside the house, Ellie stood in the dark hallway.

She watched through the peephole as the red taillights of the Maybach disappeared down the street.

She let out a long, slow breath.

She pulled her phone from her clutch and opened her calendar app.

Under Friday's date, she typed a single entry: Terminate contract.