Ines was shoved into the back seat of the Escalade.

The door slammed shut, the lock engaging with a heavy thud.

Dorian slid in beside her. He pressed a button on the armrest, and the black partition between them and the driver rose with a quiet whir.

The space instantly shrank. The air in the cabin was cool, filtered, and saturated with his scent-cedar and danger. Ines pressed herself against the door, trying to put as much distance between them as the leather bench allowed.

The car lurched forward, merging aggressively into traffic. Ines swayed, her shoulder bumping the window.

Dorian held out his hand.

Ines stared at it.

"The phone," he said.

She dug it out of her pocket and placed it in his palm. Her fingers brushed his, and she flinched as if she'd been burned.

Dorian checked the screen. He tapped a few times, verifying the encryption. "You didn't crack it," he noted, sounding almost disappointed. "Smart girl."

Ines looked out the window. The buildings were blurring past. They were heading north, toward the West Side Highway. This wasn't the way to his office. Or his hotel.

She pulled out her own phone-the cheap, cracked one Preston had silently retrieved from the bench before he grabbed her-and typed furiously.

She held the screen up to his face.

WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME?

Dorian glanced at the text, then back at her. A cruel smile played on his lips.

"To sell you," he said. "I hear Silas has outstanding debts. You might cover the interest."

Ines's blood ran cold. Her eyes went wide, terror seizing her chest. She believed him. Why wouldn't she? Men like him traded lives like stocks.

Dorian watched her reaction. The amusement faded from his eyes, replaced by something darker, harder to read. He didn't correct himself.

The car sped up. They were on the George Washington Bridge now, the steel girders flashing by. Below, the Hudson River was a gray strip of death. Ines squeezed her eyes shut. She hated heights. She hated the feeling of suspension.

Her fingernails dug into the leather seat, scratching the expensive grain. Scritch. Scritch.

A hand covered hers.

"Stop that," Dorian said.

His hand was heavy, warm, encompassing hers completely. The contact sent a jolt of electricity up her arm that had nothing to do with fear.

Ines yanked her hand away, tucking it under her thigh.

Dorian shifted, turning his body toward her. "You weren't this afraid of me last night," he said softly.

Ines bit her lip. She stared at her knees.

He reached out, his fingers gripping her chin, forcing her head up. His touch was firm, demanding eye contact.

"Speak, Ines," he commanded. "You were vocal enough with your eyes when you were begging for more."

It was a low blow. A calculated humiliation.

Ines's eyes filled with hot tears. Her throat worked, spasms of muscle trying to force sound through a closed gate. A broken, wheezing sound escaped her lips. Hhh-uh.

It was pathetic.

Dorian stared at her, his thumb brushing her lower lip. For a second, she thought he was going to kiss her. Then he released her abruptly, wiping his hand on his trousers as if she were dirty.

"Pathetic," he muttered, turning away.

The car exited the highway, winding onto the Palisades Interstate Parkway. The city was gone, replaced by dense walls of trees.

Ines's mind raced. This is where they dump bodies. She looked at the door handle. Locked. She looked at the speedometer. Eighty miles per hour.

She calculated the physics. If she jumped, the impact would shatter her pelvis. The roll would break her neck.

Dorian didn't even look at her. "Don't bother," he said, reading her mind. "At this speed, you'd be roadkill."

Ines slumped back, defeated.

Ten minutes later, the car braked hard. They swerved into a scenic overlook, gravel crunching under the tires. The cliff edge was just yards away, protected only by a flimsy wooden rail.

Dorian opened his door. The wind roared into the cabin, cold and damp.

He walked around to her side and yanked the door open.

"Get out."

Ines stepped out. Her legs were shaking. The wind whipped her hair across her face. She stood on the edge of the cliff, the gray river churning hundreds of feet below.

She waited for the push.

The wind on the Palisades was merciless. It cut through Ines's oversized hoodie, chilling her to the bone.

Dorian leaned against the hood of the Escalade. He lit a cigarette, the flame flaring bright against the overcast sky. He took a drag, his eyes narrowed against the smoke.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope. He tossed it at her.

Ines caught it against her chest. It was heavy.

She opened the flap. Inside was a stack of legal documents and a single silver key.

She pulled out the papers. The header was bold and black: NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT & DEED OF GIFT.

She scanned the legalese. It was a standard hush-money contract, but the terms were astronomical. A deed to a condo on the Upper West Side. A cashier's check with the amount left blank.

And the condition: The Beneficiary agrees to cease all contact with the Grantor and vacate the borough of Manhattan within 48 hours.

Ines looked up at him.

"It's a severance package," Dorian said, smoke curling from his lips. "Last night was a mistake. I don't do repeats. And I don't do complications."

Ines felt a sharp pain in her chest, distinct from the fear. It was shame. Pure, distilled shame. She hadn't expected love. She hadn't even expected kindness. But being treated like a liability to be paid off stung more than she wanted to admit.

He thought she was just another gold digger. Just another problem to be solved with a checkbook.

Ines looked at the check. It could solve everything. It could pay for her grandfather's care for years. It could get her away from Silas.

But looking at Dorian's arrogant face, at the way he dismissed her humanity with a puff of smoke, something inside her snapped.

She gripped the papers with both hands.

Rip.

The sound was satisfyingly loud in the quiet air.

Dorian's eyes widened slightly. He stopped smoking.

Ines tore the contract again. And again. Until the deed and the check were confetti. She threw the pieces into the air. The wind caught them, carrying them over the cliff edge, down toward the river.

She dropped the silver key on the gravel. Clink.

She turned her back on him and started walking toward the exit of the overlook.

"You're refusing me?" Dorian's voice was dangerous now. Low and incredulous.

He pushed off the car and intercepted her, blocking her path. He loomed over her, a wall of expensive wool and fury.

"Do you have any idea what you just threw away?" he hissed. "You think your pride is worth that much?"

Ines pulled out her phone. Her fingers were numb from the cold, but she typed fast.

I don't sell my body. And I don't sell my memories.

She shoved the screen in his face.

Dorian read it. For a moment, he looked stunned. Then his expression hardened into ice.

"Fine," he said. "If you want to be noble."

He turned and walked back to the car. He got in and slammed the door.

Ines stood there, waiting for him to come back. To argue. To yell.

The engine roared to life.

The window rolled down. Dorian didn't look at her. He looked straight ahead.

"Walk home," he said.

The Escalade spun its tires, spraying gravel, and sped out of the lot.

Ines watched the taillights disappear around the bend.

She was alone. Miles from the city.

A drop of rain hit her cheek. Then another. The sky opened up, a freezing drizzle that soaked her instantly.

Ines looked down at her shoes. Cheap canvas sneakers. They wouldn't last a mile.

She started walking.

It took Ines four hours to get back to Manhattan. She had hitchhiked part of the way with a trucker who looked at her with pity, dropping her off near the George Washington Bridge.

She was soaked, shivering, and her feet were blistered and bleeding inside her wet shoes.

She went straight to the hotel where she worked as a maid-her real job, the one that kept the lights on. She slipped in through the employee entrance, hoping to change into her uniform and disappear into the linen closet for a nap.

Her manager, Henderson, was waiting by the time clock.

He took one look at her dripping hair and shook his head. He held out a white envelope.

"You're done, Mccall," he said. He didn't look her in the eye.

Ines froze. She signed rapidly. Why? I'm on time.

Henderson sighed. "We got a call. From the board. Someone high up said you're a security risk." He lowered his voice. "You pissed off the wrong people, Ines. Take your pay and go."

Dorian.

It had to be. He wasn't satisfied with stranding her; he had to destroy her livelihood too.

Ines took the envelope. It felt light. Two hundred dollars, maybe.

She walked out into the alley, leaning against the brick wall. Her phone buzzed.

Reminder: Nursing Home Payment Due: $5,800. Deadline: 11:59 PM.

She slid down the wall until she hit the wet pavement. She had nothing. No job. No money. No pride.

She dragged herself to the subway. The ride to Queens was a blur of exhaustion.

When she reached her apartment building, the sun was setting, casting long, bruised shadows across the projects.

She entered the stairwell. The smell hit her instantly.

It wasn't the usual smell of urine and cabbage. It was cheap, spicy cologne. The kind that burned your nose.

Ines stopped on the second landing. She turned to leave.

The door above her flew open. Two men-massive, shaped like refrigerators-blocked the stairs.

Behind them, Silas peered out. He looked terrified. And eager.

"Ines!" he squeaked. "You got the money, right?"

Ines shook her head. She clutched the envelope from the hotel.

One of the men, the one with a neck tattoo, marched down the stairs. He grabbed Ines by her wet hair and dragged her up.

She didn't scream. She couldn't.

They threw her into her apartment. It was even worse than before. The furniture was smashed.

The second man snatched the envelope from her hand. He counted the cash. "This is a joke," he growled. "This doesn't even cover the vig."

The first man pulled out a knife. It was a switchblade, the click loud in the room. He waved it near Ines's face.

"Silas said you have a rich boyfriend," the man said.

"She does!" Silas yelled from the corner. "She was with Mcclain! Dorian Mcclain! Make her call him!"

Ines stared at her uncle in horror. He had sold her out. Completely.

The man with the knife pulled Ines's phone from her pocket. He grabbed her face, squeezing her jaw until it bruised, and forced the phone to unlock with her face ID.

He scrolled through the call log.

"Dorian," he read. "Jackpot."

He shoved the phone into Ines's hand. He pressed the blade against her throat, just enough to prick the skin. A warm drop of blood trickled down her neck.

"Call him," the man hissed. "Ask for fifty grand."

Ines's hands shook so hard she almost dropped the phone. She would rather die than call him. Not after he left her on the cliff. Not after he fired her.

The man pressed the knife harder. "Do it, or I carve a smile into your pretty face."

Ines hit dial.

The ringback tone purred. Once. Twice.

Click.

"Changed your mind?" Dorian's voice was lazy, arrogant.

Ines opened her mouth. Tears streamed down her face. No sound came out.