Sunlight hit Eric's eyelids like a physical blow. He groaned, shielding his face with his forearm. His head felt like it was packed with cotton, a lingering side effect of whatever Vance had slipped into his drink. But beneath the headache, there was a strange, unfamiliar sensation in his body. A sense of... satisfaction.

Memories flickered. Darkness. Heat. Silk skin. A scent of vanilla and rain. A woman who moved with a wild, desperate energy that matched his own.

He turned over, his hand reaching out instinctively. "Hey."

His fingers brushed against skin.

Eric forced his eyes open.

Janine Mcbride was lying next to him, propped up on one elbow. She was wearing one of his dress shirts, unbuttoned to reveal her cleavage. She smiled, a practiced, camera-ready expression. "Good morning, darling."

Eric froze. He pulled his hand back as if he had touched a hot stove.

He sat up abruptly, the sheet pooling at his waist. He looked at Janine, his eyes narrowing. Something was wrong. The math didn't add up. The woman in his memories-hazy as they were-had felt... smaller. Firmer. And she hadn't smelled like an explosion of Chanel No. 5.

"Janine," he said, his voice rough with sleep and suspicion. "What are you doing here?"

Janine pouted playfully, tracing a finger down his arm. "Don't be like that, Eric. After last night? You were... incredible."

Eric stared at her. He tried to reconcile the visceral memory of the night with the woman in front of him. It felt like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. He didn't remember inviting her. He didn't remember this perfume. But the drugs had left his memory fragmented, unreliable.

Then, his eyes caught the glint of green at her throat.

"That necklace," he said.

Janine's hand flew to the emerald locket. "Oh, this? It fell off while we were... you know. I found it on the floor this morning."

Eric stared at the stone. It was the only concrete evidence that the night had actually happened. He knew he hadn't given it to her. He had never seen that necklace before in his life. But if she had it, she must have been the one in the room. Unless... unless she took it from someone else? Or unless he was more out of his mind than he realized.

"Get out," he said. It wasn't a shout. It was a cold, flat command.

Janine flinched. "Eric?"

"I need to shower. Gavin will call you a car." He stood up, not bothering to cover himself, and walked toward the bathroom. He needed to wash the smell of her perfume off his skin. He needed to think.

Across the bridge, in Brooklyn, Aislinn was scrubbing her skin raw. She stood under the scalding spray of the shower, trying to erase the phantom sensation of Eric's hands on her waist.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She turned off the water and wrapped herself in a towel. She walked into the living room, where Harper was nursing a hangover on the couch with a bag of frozen peas on her head.

"You alive?" Harper groaned. "You disappeared. I thought you got kidnapped."

"I... fell asleep in a lounge," Aislinn lied. The lie tasted like ash.

She reached up to touch her neck, a nervous habit. Her fingers met bare skin.

Aislinn froze. Her hands frantically patted her collarbone, then her chest. She ran back to the bedroom, tearing through the pile of clothes she had discarded.

"No, no, no..."

"What did you lose?" Harper asked from the doorway.

"My mother's locket," Aislinn whispered, her face draining of color. "The emerald one."

"The one with the secret compartment?" Harper's eyes widened. "Aislinn, that thing is worth more than my life. Where did you have it last?"

"The hotel," Aislinn said, sinking onto the bed. "It must have fallen off in the... in the room."

"We have to go back. Call the lost and found."

"I can't," Aislinn said sharply. "I can never go back there."

If Eric found the necklace, he might just think a guest left it. But inside that locket, hidden behind the photo of her mother, was a tiny, engraved stamp: Rose. It was her maker's mark. The same mark on every design blueprint she had ever sold. If Eric opened it...

She grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, needing noise to drown out her panic.

Breaking News.

The screen showed paparazzi footage of Janine Mcbride exiting the Koch building. She was wearing sunglasses and a smug smile. And around her neck, gleaming in the camera flash, was the emerald locket.

Aislinn gasped. "That bitch."

Harper squinted at the screen. "Is that... did Janine Mcbride steal your necklace?"

"She didn't steal it," Aislinn realized with a sinking feeling. "She found it. In Eric's room."

"Wait," Harper looked at her slowly. "Why was your necklace in Eric's room?"

Aislinn buried her face in her hands. "Don't ask."

Back at the penthouse, Eric walked out of the bathroom, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit. Gavin was waiting, holding a tablet.

"Status," Eric said, fastening his cufflinks.

"Ms. Mcbride has left the building. The press is already running stories about a reconciliation." Gavin paused. "Sir, about last night. You asked me to check the security footage for the penthouse floor."

"And?"

"The feed from 2:00 AM to 6:00 AM is corrupt. It appears someone tampered with the server."

Eric's jaw tightened. Vance. The slimeball must have wiped the tapes to cover up the drugging. But in doing so, he had erased the only way to verify who had actually walked through that door.

"Janine had the necklace," Eric muttered, more to himself than Gavin. "It has to be her." But the memory of the scent-rain and vanilla-wouldn't leave him. Janine smelled like a department store. The woman in the dark smelled like... freedom.

"Sir, there is one more thing," Gavin said, swiping on the tablet. "The acquisition of S.W. Studios is finalized. We own the rights to the 'Rose' brand now. However, the ownership structure is... complex. The seller is a trust represented by Declan. The actual creator, this 'Rose,' remains hidden behind layers of NDA."

"Fine," Eric said, grabbing his jacket. "Set it up. I want to meet this Rose. If she's half as talented as her portfolio suggests, she might be the only interesting thing to happen to me this week."

Aislinn's phone rang. It was Declan.

"We have a problem," Declan's voice was shaking. "The new owners are here. They want a meeting. Now."

"I can't come in, Declan. I'm sick."

"You have to," Declan hissed. "It's Eric Koch personally. He's asking for Rose. If we don't produce someone, he's going to sue us for breach of contract before the ink is dry."

Aislinn looked at the TV, where Janine was still flashing her necklace. Then she looked at the mirror. She had set up S.W. Studios as a front. Declan was the face; she was the ghost. To maintain control, she had "hired" herself as a low-level assistant a month ago, a position that allowed her to be in the room without being seen. It was the perfect camouflage.

"Fine," she said, her voice turning cold. "I'll be there. But Rose isn't coming. Aislinn is."

Janine Mcbride sat in the makeup chair of her trailer, holding the phone to her ear with one hand and fingering the emerald locket with the other.

"Did I see the headlines?" she crowed. "'The Billionaire and the Beauty: Reunited.' I'm trending, darling."

On the other end of the line, her agent sighed. "Just make sure you don't lose that necklace, Janine. It looks antique. If Koch asks for it back..."

"He won't," Janine said, admiring herself in the mirror. "He thinks he gave it to me. He was so out of it last night, he probably thinks he proposed."

Miles away, in a cramped office in the garment district, Aislinn watched the live stream of Janine's interview on her laptop. She took a screenshot of the necklace, zooming in to confirm the clasp was still intact.

"Enjoy it while you can," she whispered.

She closed the laptop and stood up. It was time to get into character.

She went to the back of the studio, to a dusty box marked "Donations." She pulled out a grey oversized cardigan that smelled faintly of mothballs and a pair of orthotic shoes with thick rubber soles. She went to the bathroom and pulled her hair back into a severe, tight bun that pulled at her scalp. She put on a pair of fake, non-prescription glasses with thick frames that magnified her eyes in an unflattering way.

She slouched. Immediately, five inches of height disappeared. The confident, sensual woman from The Vault was gone. In her place was Aislinn Reese, the invisible assistant.

"You look like a librarian who just got laid off," Declan said, leaning against the doorframe. He looked pale. Gambling debts did that to a man.

"Good," Aislinn said, her voice raspy again. "That's the point. Eric Koch doesn't see people like this. He looks right through them."

"He's here," Declan warned. "The motorcade just pulled up."

Aislinn's stomach flipped, but she forced herself to grab a stack of invoices. "I'm just the intern. I take notes. I fetch coffee. I don't speak."

"He wants Rose, Aislinn. What do I tell him?"

"Tell him the truth. Rose is a recluse. She works remotely. She hates people."

The elevator doors pinged. The air in the studio changed instantly. It became heavier, charged with electricity.

Eric Koch walked in. He was flanked by Gavin and two security guards, but he didn't need them. His presence alone commanded the room. He was wearing a navy suit that cost more than the entire building. His eyes, dark and assessing, swept over the open-plan office.

Every employee froze.

Eric's gaze landed on Aislinn for a split second. She kept her head down, clutching the invoices to her chest like a shield.

He looked away immediately. No recognition. Nothing. Just a flicker of mild distaste for her attire.

"Mr. Koch," Declan stepped forward, sweating. "Welcome to S.W. Studios."

"Cut the pleasantries," Eric said. His voice was smooth, deep, and terrifyingly calm. "Where is she?"

"She?"

"Rose. The only asset in this purchase I actually care about. I bought the studio to get the brand. I expect the creator to be present."

"Ah," Declan wiped his forehead. "About that. Rose... she isn't here."

Eric stopped walking. The silence in the room was deafening. "Explain."

"She's... eccentric," Declan stammered. "Very private. She sends her designs via encrypted server. We've actually never met her in person. The trust handles everything."

Eric laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "You expect me to believe that? I just bought a company for eight figures, and you're telling me the key talent is a ghost?"

"It's in her contract," Declan pleaded. "Total anonymity."

"I don't care about contracts I didn't write," Eric said. "Tell her she shows up tomorrow, or I void the deal and sue you for fraud."

Declan looked like he was going to faint.

Aislinn knew she had to intervene. If the deal fell through, the studio would close, and her cover would be blown. She had to save the deal without revealing herself.

"She won't come," a voice croaked from the back of the room.

Eric turned slowly. He looked at the grey lump of a woman standing near the photocopier.

"Excuse me?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

Aislinn didn't look up. She kept her eyes fixed on his polished shoes. "Rose. She said if anyone tries to force her into the light, she'll burn the sketchbooks. She'd rather destroy the brand than be a celebrity."

The room gasped. Nobody spoke to Eric Koch like that.

Eric took a step toward her. He narrowed his eyes, studying her. "And who are you? Her gatekeeper?"

"I'm just an assistant," Aislinn mumbled. "I was hired last month to manage the digital filing. I manage her... correspondence."

Eric stared at her. There was something about her defiance that annoyed him, but also... intrigued him. Most people cowered. This frumpy little thing was trembling, yes, but she was still speaking.

"You have guts," Eric said softly. "Or you're stupid. I haven't decided which."

He turned back to Declan. "Fine. She keeps her anonymity. For now. But this..." he pointed a finger at Aislinn without looking at her, "...this assistant is now her official liaison. Every design, every memo, goes through her. And she reports directly to me."

Aislinn's head snapped up. Directly to him? That was the opposite of hiding.

"Sir," Gavin interjected. "You want the junior assistant to report to the CEO's office?"

"If she's the only one Rose talks to, then yes," Eric said. He looked at Aislinn one last time. "Don't make me regret this. What is your name?"

"Aislinn," she whispered.

"Speak up."

"Aislinn," she said louder.

Eric paused. The name seemed to trigger a faint memory, a nuisance he couldn't quite place. Then he shrugged. "Have the Q4 portfolio on my desk by Monday, Aislinn."

He turned on his heel and walked out.

As the elevator doors closed, Aislinn slumped against the photocopier, her legs turning to jelly. She had survived. But she had just walked straight into the lion's den.

By 6:00 PM, Aislinn felt like she was going to explode.

Her inbox was flooded with demands from Gavin. Declan was hyperventilating in his office. And every time she closed her eyes, she saw Eric's face-not the cold CEO face, but the face of the man who had held her in the dark.

She needed to hit something. Or drive.

She grabbed the keys to Harper's car from her desk. Harper had left the 1967 Ford Mustang at the studio specifically because she knew Aislinn sometimes needed a "therapy session." The car was a beast-matte black, souped-up engine, illegal tint. It was the antithesis of Aislinn Reese.

She changed in the bathroom. Off went the grey cardigan. On went a leather jacket, a baseball cap pulled low, and aviator sunglasses.

She roared out of the parking garage, the engine growling like a caged animal.

Traffic on the FDR Drive was heavy, but moving. Aislinn wove through the cars, the vibration of the steering wheel soothing the anxiety in her fingertips.

Up ahead, she saw a convoy of three black SUVs taking up two lanes, moving at a steady, arrogant pace. They were blocking traffic, forcing everyone to slow down.

Koch Security. She recognized the formation.

Flashbacks of her marriage-of being told where to sit, when to speak, how to breathe-flooded her mind. The arrogance of those black cars represented everything she hated about Eric's world.

"Move," she muttered, gripping the wheel.

She downshifted. The Mustang screamed. She saw a gap between the lead SUV and the concrete median. It was tight. Dangerous.

Perfect.

She floored it. The Mustang shot forward like a bullet.

Inside the rear SUV, Eric was reviewing a digital file of Rose's designs on his tablet. He was mesmerized by the sketches. They were bold, chaotic, yet structurally perfect.

Suddenly, a roar drowned out the quiet hum of the AC.

"What was that?" Eric asked, looking up.

"Crazy driver, sir," the security lead said from the front seat. "Coming up on the left."

Eric turned his head just in time to see a black blur shoot past his window. The car was inches from the metal guardrail. It was a maneuver that required surgical precision and a total lack of fear.

As the Mustang pulled ahead, the driver's hand shot out the window. A single finger extended in a crisp, defiant salute.

Eric blinked. Then, a slow grin spread across his face.

"Did I just get flipped off?" he asked, sounding delighted.

"I'll call it in, sir. Get the plate."

"No," Eric said, watching the taillights weave through traffic. "Let them go. That was... impressive."

He hadn't felt a spark of genuine amusement in months.

Ten minutes later, traffic stalled at a red light near the exit for the Brooklyn Bridge. The convoy pulled up next to the black Mustang.

Eric lowered his window. He wanted to see who was driving. A reckless teenager? A drunk?

The driver of the Mustang was leaning one arm on the door frame, tapping fingers against the roof to the beat of a song Eric couldn't hear.

The driver turned.

Through the tint and the sunglasses, Eric couldn't see eyes. But he saw the jawline. The curve of the neck. The way a stray lock of dark hair fell from under the cap.

For a second, the world stopped.

He knew that neck. He knew the angle of that chin. It triggered a sensory memory from the night before-the taste of skin, the pulse under his lips.

The driver seemed to freeze, staring back at him.

Aislinn.

Her heart hammered against her ribs. He was right there. Five feet away. If she took off the glasses, it was over. If she spoke, it was over.

She slowly raised her hand to the brim of her cap and pulled it down, obscuring her face completely.

The light turned green.

Aislinn didn't hesitate. She slammed on the gas, peeling out with a screech of tires that left the smell of burnt rubber in the air.

"Sir?" Gavin asked. "Did you know him?"

"Her," Eric corrected, staring at the empty road. "It was a woman."

He pulled out his phone. "Get me the registration on a black '67 Mustang. New York plate: QX-998."

"Right away."

Five minutes later, the text came through.

Owner: Harper Yates.

Eric frowned. Harper. His ex-wife's loud, obnoxious best friend. The socialite who spent more time in nightclubs than at home.

"Of course," he muttered, disappointed. "Birds of a feather."

He assumed Harper was driving, or perhaps she had lent the car to one of her many boyfriends. He thought briefly of Aislinn, the grey mouse from the office, but the thought was laughable. That timid creature couldn't handle a stick shift, let alone drive with that kind of aggression. The idea that Aislinn Reese could be behind the wheel of a muscle car was as absurd as a nun robbing a bank.

But the image of that chin, that neck... it stayed with him. It was bothering him. It was a puzzle piece that didn't fit.

Back at her apartment, Aislinn parked the car and rested her forehead against the steering wheel. Her hands were shaking.

Too close.

She needed that necklace back. As long as Janine had it, she was tethered to that night. And as long as she was working for Eric, she was walking a tightrope over a pit of fire.

She pulled out her laptop and opened a backdoor program she had installed on Eric's home network years ago-back when she was trying to find out what his favorite meal was so she could cook it.

She scanned his calendar.

Tomorrow: 7:00 PM. Charity Auction. Koch HQ Atrium.

Janine would be there. She would be wearing the necklace to show it off.

Aislinn smiled, a sharp, dangerous curve of her lips.

"Time to go to work."