The door clicked shut, sealing them in a world of gold leaf and velvet. The city lights of Manhattan sprawled out through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a billion uncaring eyes.

Harrison didn't waste time. He tossed his jacket onto a chair and walked toward her. He didn't rush. He moved with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was going to get.

Angelina's throat went dry. Brittain's idea of intimacy was quick, efficient, and usually happened with the lights off. This felt... raw.

Harrison stopped inches from her. He reached out and took the Hermès bag from her grip, setting it on the console table.

"Stop shaking," he murmured. "I'm not him."

The mention of Brittain was the trigger. The anger she had been suppressing for two years flared up, hot and bright. She didn't wait for him to initiate. She stood on her tiptoes, grabbed the lapels of his shirt, and pulled him down.

She kissed him. It wasn't gentle. It was a collision.

Harrison froze for a split second, surprised, before a low growl vibrated in his chest. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her off the floor, crushing her against him. He kissed her back with a hunger that bordered on violence. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming her, tasting the vodka and the mint.

He carried her to the bedroom, not breaking the kiss. He laid her down on the massive bed, his body covering hers, a heavy, solid weight that felt grounding.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough.

Angelina opened her eyes. Harrison was hovering over her, his eyes dark, searching.

"Say my name," he said. "I want to hear you say it."

"Harrison," she breathed.

He didn't just have sex with her. He dismantled her. Every touch was deliberate, every movement calculated to wring a reaction from her. He made her feel things she had convinced herself she was incapable of feeling. He forced her to be present, to be vocal, to be Angelina, not Mrs. Kane.

Afterward, the silence in the room was different. It wasn't heavy anymore. It was soft.

Angelina lay curled on her side, the high-thread-count sheets pulled up to her chin. She felt exhausted, sore, and strangely, incredibly hungry.

Harrison was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, one arm thrown over his eyes. He shifted, turning to look at her. He reached out, his index finger tracing the line of her spine.

"You're starving," he said. It wasn't a question.

Angelina's stomach growled loudly. She flushed. "I... I usually skip dinner."

"To fit into the sample sizes Brittain likes?" Harrison scoffed. He sat up and grabbed the room service menu. "Not tonight."

He picked up the hotel phone. "Two double cheeseburgers. Fries. Truffle aioli. And... a chocolate milkshake. Two straws."

Twenty minutes later, they were sitting cross-legged on the million-dollar bed, surrounded by greaseproof paper.

Angelina hesitated, holding the burger. It was greasy, heavy, everything she wasn't allowed to have.

"Eat it, Angelina," Harrison said, taking a massive bite of his own. "It's just food. It won't kill you."

She took a bite. The taste of salt, fat, and cheese exploded in her mouth. She groaned involuntarily. She ate the whole thing. She wiped a smudge of ketchup from her lip, but she missed a spot.

Harrison reached out. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, wiping away the sauce. His touch was gentle, almost reverent. It was such a domestic, intimate gesture that it terrified her more than the sex had.

She pulled back sharply.

Harrison dropped his hand. The mask slid back into place, but his eyes remained soft.

"You staying?" she asked, her voice quiet.

Harrison lay back down, pulling the duvet up. "I'm not leaving a suite that costs fifteen grand a night until check-out. Besides," he closed his eyes, "we haven't finished the milkshake."

Angelina watched him sleep. For the first time in two years, she didn't feel alone. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Sunlight assaulted the room. Angelina woke with a start, her heart instantly hammering. She sat up. The space beside her was empty, the sheets cold.

The bathroom door was open, steam billowing out. She could hear the shower running.

She grabbed her phone. Five texts. All from Brittain.

Where are you?

Did you stay at your mother's?

Answer me.

Don't forget dinner tonight.

She typed back, her fingers flying. Sorry, phone died. Stayed at the spa late and crashed in the lounge. See you at home.

Lies. They came so easily now.

Harrison walked out of the bathroom. He had a towel wrapped low around his hips. Water droplets clung to the dark hair on his chest. He looked refreshed, vibrant, completely unbothered by the moral implications of the previous night.

"Morning," he said, walking to the dresser where his watch lay. "I have a board meeting at nine. You should probably go before the maids start their rounds."

The warmth from the burgers was gone. He was back to being Harrison Juarez, the CEO.

His phone, sitting on the nightstand, began to buzz. The screen lit up: Bianca.

Harrison groaned. He was toweling off his hair and couldn't reach it. "Do me a favor? Decline that."

Angelina looked at the phone. Bianca Sterling. The ex-girlfriend who still thought she had a claim. A mischievous, reckless impulse seized Angelina.

She picked up the phone. She didn't hit decline. She hit Accept.

She didn't say a word. She just held the phone, letting the ambient noise of the hotel room-the rustle of sheets, the sound of Harrison moving-filter through.

"Harry?" Bianca's voice was tinny and shrill. "Harry, are you there?"

Harrison turned, seeing the phone in her hand. "What are you doing?"

Angelina tapped End Call instantly. She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Oops. Wet fingers. Sorry."

Harrison narrowed his eyes. He walked over, took the phone, and checked the call log. He looked at her, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You're trouble."

"I'm learning," she said. She stood up and began to dress, pulling on the Chanel armor.

When she was fully dressed, she turned to him. "What's your bank account number?"

Harrison paused, buttoning his shirt. "Excuse me?"

"The room," she said. "And your... fee."

His face darkened. "I told you, I'm not a gigolo."

"And I told you this was a transaction," Angelina said, her voice crisp. She pulled out her phone, ready to open her banking app. "I don't like debts. Especially not to you."

Harrison moved in a blur, his hand closing over hers, stopping her thumb from tapping the screen. "Are you an idiot?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "You're planning to leave him, and you're going to create a direct, time-stamped wire transfer from your account to his biggest rival? Brittain's accountants would find that in an hour. You'd be handing him the moral high ground and half your settlement on a silver platter."

Angelina froze, the cold logic of his words sinking in. He was right. It was a stupid, emotional mistake.

He let go of her hand. "I don't want your money," he said, his tone softening slightly. "I want the look on Brittain's face when he realizes what he lost. Consider this an investment. You owe me."

"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Juarez," she said, her voice tight. She wasn't used to owing anyone anything.

She walked out the door without looking back.

Harrison stared at the door she had just exited. He ran a hand through his damp hair and whispered, "Damn."

The brunch spot in Tribeca was noisy, filled with the clatter of silverware and the hum of gossip. Zoe Nielson was already there, scrolling through her phone.

Angelina slid into the booth. She felt different. Her skin felt too tight, her senses too sharp.

"You're late," Zoe said, not looking up. Then she saw Angelina. She paused. "You look... different. Less 'Stepford', more 'Real Housewife on a rampage'."

Angelina ordered a black coffee. "I'm divorcing him."

Zoe dropped her fork. It clattered against the ceramic plate. "What? Finally? Did you find more texts?"

"I found everything," Angelina said. She pulled out her phone and showed Zoe the photos of the trust fund documents she had photographed weeks ago. "He's moving assets offshore. If I leave now, I get nothing. Unless I prove fault."

"Fault," Zoe whispered. "You need dirt."

"I have a plan," Angelina said. "I need that P.I. you know. The expensive one."

"Brody Brooks," Zoe nodded. "He's the best. But Angie..."

The name hit Angelina like a physical blow. Brody Brooks. Her cousin. The one who had stood by and watched as the Pickett side of the family bled her father's legacy dry, the one who had published a philosophy paper that was a thinly veiled plagiarism of her father's unpublished manuscripts. A cold, calculating fury settled in her chest. Zoe, bless her heart, was clueless about that particular branch of her twisted family tree.

A new plan, dangerous and sharp, formed in her mind. Who better to hunt for Brittain's secrets than a man she already knew was a snake? She could feed him exactly what she wanted him to find, and maybe, just maybe, destroy two enemies with one stone.

"Perfect," Angelina said, her voice smooth as glass, betraying none of the turmoil inside her. "Give me his number."

Zoe leaned in, her eyes narrowing. She pointed a manicured finger at Angelina's neck. "What is that?"

Angelina's hand flew to her collar. She had worn a turtleneck, but it must have slipped.

"Did he hit you?" Zoe hissed, her voice low and dangerous.

"No," Angelina said quickly. "It's... not Brittain."

Zoe's jaw dropped. She stared at Angelina, processing. Then a slow, wicked smile spread across her face. "You didn't. You actually did it? The escort?"

Angelina looked down at her coffee. "Not the escort."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you," Angelina said. "But he's... useful. He hates Brittain as much as I do."

Zoe sat back, looking at her friend with new respect. "Angelina Sherman, you dark horse." She slid a business card across the table. "Call Brody. Burn him to the ground, honey."

Angelina's phone rang. Hubby.

The air left the table. Angelina took a deep breath. Her face relaxed, her eyes softened, her shoulders slumped. In a second, she transformed.

"Hey, honey," she answered, her voice sweet and submissive.

Zoe watched, shivering.

"Where have you been?" Brittain's voice barked. "I need you home. The gala is tonight. And pick up my dry cleaning."

"Of course, darling. I'm on my way," Angelina said.

She hung up. The sweetness vanished. "Back to the dungeon," she muttered.