Aidan sat in the driver's seat of the black Maybach. The cabin was pitch black, illuminated only by the faint, ghostly blue glow of the dashboard dials.

His breathing was ragged. His tie hung loose around his neck. Brent's confession played on a continuous, torturous loop in his brain.

It was a lie.

He dragged a shaking hand down his face, trying to crush the violent mix of euphoria and devastation tearing his chest apart. She hadn't betrayed him. She had been his the whole time.

His phone vibrated on the console. A text from Jennings. Target exiting elevator now. Parking level B2.

Aidan's hands clamped down on the leather steering wheel. His knuckles popped in the silence.

He stared through the tinted windshield at the metal elevator doors fifty yards away. His eyes narrowed, predatory and hyper-focused.

With a soft ding, the elevator doors slid open. A pool of warm, yellow light spilled across the dirty concrete.

Julianna stepped out.

Aidan's lungs stopped working.

She wore a beige trench coat. Her head was bowed, her hair falling softly around her face as she clutched the strap of her bag with one hand. The other hand pressed her phone to her ear. Her brow was furrowed in frustration.

He drank her in. He devoured every line of her body, every familiar curve that hadn't changed in eight agonizing years. The hunger inside him was a physical ache in his gut.

Then he saw it. The way she moved.

She was limping.

A slight, almost imperceptible hitch in her stride. A protective favor of her left leg. Her ankle was wrapped in a nude compression bandage, barely visible beneath the hem of her coat.

Aidan's eyes dropped to her knee. A fresh, angry scrape marred the skin there. The image of her falling—of her bare knee slamming onto abrasive concrete—flashed through his mind unbidden. It was the same knee she had clutched earlier, the same raw wound he had glimpsed from behind the wheel just hours ago.

The sight of it now, still bleeding faintly through a thin layer of hastily applied ointment, sent a jagged bolt of something primal through his chest. He had caused that.

No. He hadn't known. He had sat in this very car, frozen by eight years of poisoned silence, watching her stumble and bleed while he played the role of a dead-eyed ghost.

His fingers curled into the leather steering wheel until the stitching groaned.

She was limping toward the far side of the garage, where a row of modest sedans sat in stark contrast to his Maybach. Her voice echoed faintly off the concrete walls. She was arguing with someone.

Aidan's mind raced. In the hours since she had walked away with that man—Orville—she had gone upstairs, attended a meeting, and come back down. And she was still hurting. Still favoring the leg that had twisted in the grate. Still bearing the mark of his silence.

He needed to touch her. He needed to prove she was real, to undo every second of the distance he had enforced in this very garage.

He reached for the door handle.

His thumb pressed the unlock button. The soft thud of the disengaging locks echoed inside the cabin.

Julianna stopped walking. She had reached her car. A beat-up silver sedan with a dent in the rear bumper. She fumbled with her keys, the phone still pressed to her ear.

Aidan pushed the door open. The cold air of the garage flooded the cabin.

He stepped out.

The sound of his shoe hitting the concrete made her flinch. She whirled around, her eyes wide with the same startled terror he had seen in the rearview mirror hours ago.

Her gaze found him in the dim light. Recognition hit her face like a physical blow. Her lips parted. Her phone slipped from her ear.

Aidan took a step forward. His hands were open at his sides. Unarmed. Unmasked.

"Julianna."

His voice was raw. It scraped past the eight-year-old knot in his throat.

She took a step back. Her injured leg buckled slightly, and she grabbed the roof of her car for support.

"Stay away from me," she whispered. It wasn't anger in her voice. It was fear. Fear of the man who had stared through her like she was a stranger while she bled at his bumper.

Aidan stopped. Self-hatred flooded his veins. He had done this. He had turned himself into the monster in her story.

The sound of heavy, running footsteps echoed through the garage.

Aidan's eyes snapped to the stairwell. Orville burst through the door, a paper bag of takeout in one hand, his cheap suit jacket flapping behind him. He skidded to a halt as he registered the scene—Julianna braced against her car, Aidan standing twenty feet away like a predator frozen in headlights.

"Hey!" Orville shouted, rushing forward to put himself between them. "Back off!"

Aidan didn't move. He didn't look at Orville. His eyes stayed locked on Julianna's face. On the way her chest rose and fell with panicked breaths. On the way her hand gripped the edge of the car roof like a lifeline.

He had spent eight years building walls of ice and steel. He could not tear them all down in a single parking garage. Not like this. Not with her looking at him like he was something to run from.

He took a step back. Then another.

"Julianna," he said again, softer this time. "We need to talk."

She shook her head. Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back with a ferocity that made his heart splinter. "You had eight years to talk, Aidan. Eight years."

She yanked open her car door. Orville hovered at her side, his expression a mixture of confusion and protective fury.

Aidan watched her slide into the driver's seat. He watched her jam the key into the ignition with trembling hands. He watched Orville rush around to the passenger side, throwing one last glare over his shoulder.

The engine turned over. The silver sedan pulled out of the parking spot.

Aidan stood in the empty space it left behind. The exhaust fumes curled around his ankles. The silence of the garage pressed down on him like a physical weight.

He pulled his phone from his pocket with numb fingers. He hit a speed dial number.

"Jennings," he said, his voice dropping back to absolute zero. "I need every address. Every place she's lived in the last eight years. Every job she's had. Every friend. I want it all."

He ended the call.

He walked back to the Maybach, slid into the driver's seat, and closed the door. The cabin swallowed him in darkness once more.

He sat there for a long time, staring at the empty parking space where she had been.

Eight years of silence had ended tonight. But the real war had only just begun.

Aidan stared through the dark tint of the window, his eyes locked on the man running toward Julianna. A stranger in a cheap grey suit.

He watched as the man reached her. He watched as the man's hand reached out and grabbed Julianna's arm, hauling her up. He watched as the man's thick arm wrapped casually, intimately, around her shoulders.

Something inside Aidan snapped. It wasn't a clean break; it was a violent, jagged tearing of his sanity.

His breathing turned harsh. Thick, red veins spiderwebbed across the whites of his eyes. His chest heaved against the steering wheel.

He slammed the palm of his hand against the high-beam lever.

Twin pillars of blinding white light exploded from the Maybach, striking the two of them like a physical assault.

He saw Julianna flinch and turn her face away. His stomach twisted with guilt, but he refused to turn the lights off. He needed to see the face of the man touching what belonged to him. He needed to burn it into his memory.

The man in the grey suit marched up to the car and slammed his fist against the reinforced glass.

The heavy thuds vibrated through the cabin, but Aidan didn't blink. He stared at the man with the cold, detached calculation of an executioner.

Aidan's finger hit the window switch. The glass lowered exactly two inches.

The freezing air from the AC poured out. Aidan knew his scent—the sharp cedarwood he had worn since he was twenty—would hit her instantly.

He watched Julianna's head snap up. He saw the shock, the wild confusion, the sudden vulnerability pooling in her eyes.

His heart skipped a violent beat. She remembers.

The realization poured gasoline on the fire in his chest. The jealousy and possessiveness raged so hard he felt physically sick. He wanted to roll the window all the way down, grab the man by the throat, and drag Julianna into the passenger seat.

But he saw the way she shrank back. He saw the defensive wall slam down over her eyes.

If he stepped out now, as the billionaire heir to the Caldwell empire, he would terrify her. He would lose her before he even had her back.

He forced his finger to pull the window switch up. The glass sealed shut.

He shoved the gearshift into reverse and slammed his foot on the gas. The Maybach roared, the tires screaming against the concrete as he threw the car backward, intentionally missing the man's body by a millimeter.

He watched her shrink in the rearview mirror until he hit the exit ramp and shot out into the Manhattan traffic.

The air inside the car was suffocating. Aidan hit the Bluetooth button on the steering wheel.

"Jennings," Aidan barked, his voice laced with pure venom.

"Yes, Mr. Caldwell?"

"The man in the grey suit in the B2 garage. Find out everything. His name, his bank accounts, his blood type. I want to know exactly what his relationship is with Julianna Pitts. If they've so much as shared a cup of coffee, I want to know in thirty minutes."

He killed the call. He ripped the tie off his neck and threw it onto the passenger seat.

He rolled down all four windows. The freezing November wind whipped through the car, but it did nothing to cool the raging fever in his blood. All he could see was the man's hand on her shoulder.

He slammed on the brakes, pulling the car violently to the curb. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather groaned.

He grabbed his phone and typed a rapid, manic text to Jennings.

Buy white Lisianthus. The most expensive you can find. Have them in my apartment before I get there.

The private elevator doors slid open, depositing Aidan directly into his Tribeca penthouse.

The massive, open-concept space was pitch black. He didn't touch the light switches. He walked through the darkness, shrugging off his suit jacket and letting it drop onto the custom Italian leather sofa.

He walked straight to the marble island in the kitchen. He grabbed a bottle of Belvedere vodka, ignored the ice bucket, and poured a heavy measure into a glass. He threw his head back and swallowed it in one burn.

The alcohol scorched his throat, but it couldn't touch the sick, twisting knot of jealousy in his gut.

The soft chime of the front door keypad echoed in the silence.

K. Jennings stepped inside. His arms were empty. He moved silently, knowing better than to turn on the lights when Aidan was in this mood.

Aidan's eyes flicked to the marble island. The bouquet of white Lisianthus sat exactly where it had been placed before his arrival—pristine, untouched, a ghost of a promise he had made eight years ago. Jennings had followed his order to the letter.

"His name is Orville Frye," Jennings said, his voice low and clinical. "Art Director at the publishing group. He is currently single. Office rumors suggest he has been aggressively pursuing Ms. Pitts for six months."

Aidan's hand tightened around the empty glass.

Pursuing.

The thick crystal of the tumbler let out a sharp, terrifying crack under the pressure of his grip.

"Get out," Aidan whispered, his voice rough as sandpaper.

Jennings bowed his head slightly and backed out of the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.

Aidan stood in the dark. His eyes locked onto the white Lisianthus.

They were Julianna's favorite. Eight years ago, on that rainy night, he had bought a bouquet just like this. He had planned to ask her to marry him.

He reached out. His long fingers brushed against the delicate, velvety petals. The touch was agonizingly gentle, almost reverent.

Then, the image of Orville's arm draped over her shoulders flashed behind his eyes.

Aidan let out a guttural sound. His hand shot out, his fingers crushing the stems. He picked up the massive bouquet and hurled it against the far wall with explosive violence.

The flowers shattered. White petals exploded into the air, raining down onto the hardwood floor like dead snow.

He paced the length of the living room, his breathing heavy and ragged. He ran both hands through his hair, gripping the roots until it hurt.

He stopped by the sofa, dropped to his knees, and yanked open the bottom drawer of the end table. He pulled out a worn, leather-bound sketchbook.

He flipped it open to the first page. It was a charcoal drawing of a girl reading a book. The lines were soft, capturing the exact curve of her jaw and the slope of her nose.

Aidan's trembling fingers traced the paper. His eyes burned.

"Julianna," he whispered into the empty room. His voice broke, heavy with a pathetic, desperate longing.

He slumped back against the base of the sofa, pulling the sketchbook tight against his chest, right over his violently beating heart.

Across the room, his phone lit up on the counter. A file from Jennings.

Aidan didn't move for ten minutes. Finally, the raw vulnerability drained from his face, replaced by a cold, calculating mask.

He stood up, walked to the counter, and opened the file. It detailed the massive budget crisis Julianna's department was facing over an anniversary issue.

A slow, cruel smile curved Aidan's lips. He had found his way in. He was going to use her job to trap her.