Julianna's pulse thudded in her ears, loud and erratic. She stared at the Maybach. It sat there, completely motionless, like a predator waiting in the deep ocean.

The heavy silence shattered.

Rapid, heavy footsteps echoed from the direction of the elevator banks.

"Julianna!"

It was Orville Frye. His signature loud, grating voice bounced off the concrete walls.

Orville marched toward her, a scowl already forming on his face. He held two iced Americanos from Starbucks, the dark liquid sloshing dangerously close to the plastic lids with every aggressive stride he took.

He stopped in front of her, his eyes dropping to the dirt and blood on her knee, then to her awkward stance. His jaw tightened. He instantly assumed the driver of the luxury car had hit her and refused to get out.

"Hey!" Orville barked, stepping directly in front of Julianna. He reached out, his arm wrapping heavily around her shoulders, pulling her flush against his side in a protective, overly familiar gesture.

Julianna stiffened. The sudden physical contact made her skin crawl. She instinctively twisted her shoulder, trying to subtly break his grip.

Inside the Maybach, the driver reacted.

The headlights blasted on again. This time, the high beams hit them with the force of a physical blow. The blinding light locked dead onto Orville's hand where it rested on Julianna's shoulder.

Julianna turned her face away, blinded.

Orville snapped.

He dropped his arm from her shoulder, shoved one of the sweating coffee cups into her chest, and stormed toward the driver's side window.

"Are you out of your mind?" Orville slammed his open palm against the reinforced glass. "Do you not know how to drive in New York?"

The window didn't roll all the way down. It lowered exactly two inches.

A blast of freezing air-conditioning poured out from the narrow gap. And with it came a scent.

It was a sharp, biting wave of cedarwood mixed with something cold and masculine.

Julianna inhaled, and her brain short-circuited.

A violent, electric shock of familiarity ripped through her chest. Her lungs seized.

She jerked her head up, staring at that two-inch gap, desperate to see the face inside.

But Orville's broad back blocked her view completely. All she could see was a single hand resting on the steering wheel. The knuckles were bone-white, gripping the leather so hard it looked like the steering column might snap.

The man inside didn't say a single word. He just looked at Orville.

Even from where she stood, Julianna could feel the weight of that stare. It was a look of absolute, lethal indifference.

Orville's mouth opened to yell again, but the words died in his throat. He took a tiny step back.

The window slid up. The glass sealed shut with a soft thud, cutting off the scent of cedarwood entirely.

The Maybach slammed into reverse. The tires shrieked against the concrete, burning rubber.

The massive car whipped backward in a violent, aggressive arc. The side mirror missed Orville's suit jacket by less than an inch. A rush of cold wind hit them as the car spun around.

The red taillights blurred into a streak as the car shot up the exit ramp and disappeared into the Manhattan night.

Orville let out a shaky breath, a bead of sweat forming on his forehead. He flipped off the empty ramp. "Wall Street psycho."

Julianna stood frozen. Her fingers gripped the plastic coffee cup so hard the sides began to buckle. Her hands were shaking.

That smell. That exact scent of cedarwood. It clawed at the walls of her memory, dragging up the ghost of a man who had walked out of her life eight years ago.

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head hard. No. Stop it. She forced the ridiculous thought out of her mind. He was in Europe. He wasn't in a Maybach in midtown Manhattan.

Orville turned back to her, his bravado returning. "Are you okay? Did he hit you?" He reached out to touch her arm again.

Julianna took a smooth half-step backward, perfectly evading his hand. She forced a tight, polite smile. "I'm fine. I just tripped."

Orville frowned but didn't push it. He fell into step beside her as they walked toward the elevators. "Good. Because we need to talk about the photographer for the anniversary issue. You can't keep stalling."

On the twelfth floor of the publishing group's headquarters, the conference room felt like a war zone.

Orville slammed a massive, hardcover art book by the late Silas Thorne onto the glass table. The heavy thud made Julianna wince.

She rubbed her throbbing temples. "Orville, the budget is over by two hundred percent. We don't have the money."

Orville leaned over the table, planting both hands on the glass. "You cannot compromise on art, Julianna. This is Silas Thorne."

Julianna didn't blink. She flipped open the financial report, uncapped a red pen, and aggressively circled the massive deficit at the bottom of the page. "I'm not compromising on art. I'm telling you we are broke. Your vision is a financial suicide mission."

"You are a corporate machine," Orville spat, his face turning red. "You don't understand the creative process at all."

He snatched the art book off the table, turned on his heel, and slammed the glass door behind him.

Julianna slumped back into her ergonomic chair, the fight draining out of her. She closed her eyes, the headache behind them pulsing with every heartbeat.

Fifty-eight floors above her, in the executive penthouse suite, the temperature in the room was cold enough to freeze blood.

Brent Aguilar, the Vice President of the publishing group, pushed open the double walnut doors. He wore a perfectly tailored suit and a politician's practiced, hollow smile.

Aidan Caldwell stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to the room. He wore a dark grey bespoke suit that fit his broad shoulders flawlessly. He held an unlit cigar between his fingers. He looked like a king surveying his empire.

"Aidan," Brent said, his voice dripping with forced familiarity. He walked forward, extending his right hand. "Welcome back to New York. It's an honor to have Europe's top architectural consultant looking at our building."

Aidan turned around slowly. His eyes, dark and bottomless, dropped to Brent's outstretched hand. He stared at it for three agonizing seconds. He made absolutely no move to take it.

Brent's smile faltered. He awkwardly pulled his hand back and wiped his palm against his trousers, his chest tightening with sudden anxiety.

Aidan walked past him and sat down on the center leather sofa. He crossed his long legs, resting his ankle on his knee. His posture was relaxed, but the energy radiating off him was suffocating.

He tossed the unlit cigar onto the glass coffee table. "Where are the structural assessment files?" His voice was a low, rough rasp that demanded immediate compliance.

Brent hurried over to the wet bar. He needed to do something with his hands. He grabbed two crystal tumblers. The ice clinked loudly against the glass as he poured two generous measures of expensive Macallan whiskey.

He walked back and slid one of the tumblers across the table toward Aidan. "We have them ready. But come on, man. It's been years. We should catch up."

Aidan stared at the amber liquid swirling in the glass. His expression was unreadable. He picked up the tumbler but didn't bring it to his lips. Instead, his thumb slowly traced the cut-glass pattern on the side.

Brent swallowed hard, pushing his luck. "I saw the Pritzker nomination. Congratulations. I have to ask, though... why leave Paris? Why take a boring consulting gig for a publishing building in New York?"

Aidan's thumb stopped moving. A dark, violent shadow crossed his eyes.

He slowly lifted his head. His gaze cut through Brent's fake smile like a scalpel.

"Some assets are more valuable than buildings," Aidan said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Did you think I'd forgotten what was mine? That there was nothing left in New York worth coming back to claim?"

Brent's face froze. The blood drained from his cheeks. His hand trembled, and a single drop of whiskey spilled over the rim of his glass, splashing onto his knuckles.

The rich smell of the alcohol filled the air, mixing with the sudden, heavy tension that felt like a loaded gun pointed at Brent's chest.

Brent quickly took a massive gulp of his drink. He looked at the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but Aidan's eyes. "I... I don't know what you mean."

Aidan slammed his untouched glass down onto the table. The heavy thud echoed through the massive room.

He stood up, towering over Brent. "I'm taking over the project."

He didn't wait for an answer. He turned his back on Brent and walked straight out the double doors.

Aidan's fingers wrapped around the cold brass of the elevator call button.

"Wait." Brent's voice cracked behind him, laced with panic.

Brent burst through the double doors, scrambling around a marble console table in the hallway, rushing to put himself between Aidan and the elevator doors. His chest heaved beneath his silk tie.

Aidan stopped. He looked down at Brent with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. He looked at him like he was a cockroach that needed to be crushed.

Brent swallowed the lump in his throat, trying to summon some executive authority. "You can't do this, Aidan. You can't bring personal grudges into a corporate deal. It's unprofessional."

Aidan let out a dark, hollow laugh. He let go of the call button and took a step forward.

Brent took a step back.

Aidan took another step. His presence was a physical weight, forcing Brent backward until his shoulder blades slammed hard against the polished wall of the corridor. There was nowhere left to run.

Aidan leaned in, his face inches from Brent's. "Who said anything about personal grudges?" His voice was ice.

Brent's eyes darted wildly around the hallway. Sweat beaded on his forehead. "I... I don't know what you're talking about. The past is the past."

Aidan's hand shot out. He grabbed the knot of Brent's silk tie and yanked him forward with brutal force.

Brent choked out a gasp as the fabric dug into his windpipe. His face flushed a deep, mottled red.

"Eight years ago," Aidan snarled, his eyes burning with demonic fury. "That night it rained. You called me. You told me Julianna was in your bed. Was it true?"

At the sound of Julianna's name, Brent's pupils dilated in sheer terror. His mental defenses shattered.

He grabbed Aidan's wrist with both hands, desperately trying to pry those iron fingers off his throat. It was useless. Aidan's grip didn't budge a millimeter.

"Tell me!" Aidan roared, shaking him.

"No!" Brent gasped, tears of panic springing to his eyes. "No! It was a lie! It was all a lie!"

Aidan froze.

"I made it up!" Brent sobbed, his voice pathetic and broken. "If I didn't tell you that, you never would have left for Europe! You never would have let her go!"

The words hit Aidan like a physical bullet to the chest. Every muscle in his body locked tight. A terrifying, violent darkness exploded behind his eyes.

He shoved Brent backward with everything he had.

Brent flew back, crashing onto the polished marble floor. His body slammed into a heavy metal umbrella stand, knocking it over with a deafening crash. He curled into a tight ball, clutching his ribs and groaning in agony.

Aidan stood over him. His chest heaved violently. His hands curled into fists so tight his fingernails sliced into the flesh of his palms.

Eight years. Eight years of her believing he was a traitor. Eight years of him believing she had chosen someone else. All of it built on a lie.

A low, broken laugh ripped from Aidan's throat. It sounded insane. It echoed off the corridor walls, full of grief and madness.

He reached up, his fingers tightening on the knot of his tie, loosening it slightly as if he were suffocating.

He looked down at Brent one last time. The rage was gone, replaced by a terrifying, dead emptiness.

Aidan kicked a piece of broken ceramic out of his way. "Stay away from her," he said, his voice devoid of all human emotion. "The rules are mine now."

He turned and walked toward his private elevator.

The bright fluorescent lights of the hallway hit his face. He pulled his phone from his pocket as he strode forward.

He hit a speed dial number. "Jennings," Aidan said, his voice dropping back to absolute zero. "Find out exactly where Julianna Pitts is right now."

The elevator doors slid shut, sealing him inside with his obsession.