The blinding light of the chandelier felt like a physical blow.

Gisele stared into Constantine's gray eyes. They were a storm of suppressed, dark desire and naked, razor-sharp disgust.

She snatched her hands back from his chest as if his suit jacket had caught fire. Her shoulder blades hit the cold glass behind her with a dull thud. Her lungs refused to expand.

"I-I thought-" Her voice broke. The pathetic stutter sounded ridiculous in the heavy silence of the room.

Constantine didn't step back. He stayed exactly where he was, his tall frame caging her against the window. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hands and smoothed the lapels of his suit where her fingers had just wrinkled them. Every slow movement of his long fingers was a calculated display of power.

He took a half-step closer. The toe of his polished leather shoe tapped against hers.

"You thought what, Miss Cooper?" Constantine's voice was a low, lethal drawl. It scraped against her nerves like sandpaper. "That climbing into the wrong bed in the dark would secure your little architectural funding?"

The sheer cruelty of the accusation hit her like a slap. Heat rushed to Gisele's cheeks, burning away the cold terror. Her hands balled into fists at her sides.

"I thought you were Channing," she forced the words out, her voice shaking with humiliation. She tried to duck under his arm to escape.

Constantine's hand shot out. He didn't grab her, but he slammed his palm flat against the glass right next to her head, blocking her path.

He leaned down, his face inches from hers. "You are a parasite," he whispered, his eyes dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to her eyes. "But I didn't realize you were desperate enough to offer yourself to the highest bidder."

Tears of pure, acidic frustration pricked the corners of Gisele's eyes. She hated him. She hated the way he looked at her like she was dirt on his shoes.

Before she could scream at him, the heavy brass handle of the study door rattled violently.

The metal clicked.

Gisele's stomach plummeted to the floor. If Channing walked in and saw her trapped between his brother's arms, her only source of money for her mother's surgery would be gone forever.

She looked up at Constantine. Her eyes were wide, shining with unshed tears. It was a look of pure, unadulterated begging.

Constantine stared at her terrified face. A muscle in his jaw feathered. The sight of her looking so desperate to protect her relationship with his useless brother sent a spike of irrational, violent rage straight through his chest.

The door swung open.

In a fraction of a second, Constantine dropped his arm and took a smooth step backward. He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, his posture instantly transforming into that of an untouchable, bored billionaire.

Channing strode into the room, his phone glued to his ear. "The entire grid is a joke," he was complaining loudly. He lowered the phone and stopped dead in his tracks.

His eyes darted from his older brother to Gisele.

Gisele was pressed against the glass, her chest heaving, her face flushed red, and her lips slightly swollen. The air in the room was thick, heavy with a heat that hadn't yet dissipated.

Channing frowned, his eyes narrowing. "What is going on in here?"

Gisele opened her mouth, but her throat was completely dry. No words came out.

Constantine spoke first. His voice was flat, bored, and completely devoid of the dark heat from seconds ago.

"Your girlfriend," Constantine said, not even looking at Gisele, "was wandering the private halls like a lost stray. She stumbled in here looking for you."

The insult was precise and brutal. It stripped Gisele of any dignity, but it perfectly explained her flushed, panicked state.

Channing's suspicion vanished instantly. He didn't look at Gisele with concern. He looked at her with intense annoyance.

"Gisele, what the hell is wrong with you?" Channing snapped, walking over and grabbing her by the wrist. His grip was tight, almost painful. "You don't just barge into my private study, especially not when Constantine's using it. Have some class."

The words felt like a physical punch to her gut. Her boyfriend wasn't defending her. He was apologizing to the man who had just verbally degraded her.

Constantine watched Channing pull her away from the window. His eyes locked onto Channing's hand wrapped around Gisele's delicate wrist. A dark, ugly emotion flared in Constantine's chest, making his breathing shallow, but his face remained a mask of stone.

"Get her out of here," Constantine ordered coldly, turning his back to them and walking toward his mahogany desk. "I have a crisis in the European markets to handle. I don't have time for this."

Channing immediately let go of his arrogant posture. He nodded quickly, a subservient dog eager to please the master of his trust fund.

"Come on," Channing muttered, yanking Gisele toward the door.

As she was dragged out of the room, Gisele couldn't stop herself. She looked back over her shoulder.

Constantine wasn't looking at his desk. He was standing perfectly still, his hands gripping the edge of the wood so hard his knuckles were stark white. His dark gray eyes were fixed dead on her. It wasn't a look of dismissal. It was the look of a predator watching its prey being temporarily dragged away by someone else.

A violent shiver ran down Gisele's spine.

The heavy oak door slammed shut, cutting off his gaze.

Gisele stumbled in her heels as Channing pulled her down the hallway. Her wrist throbbed.

"Channing, wait," she gasped, digging her heels into the carpet to stop him. "I need to talk to you. The hospital called. My mother's bill-"

Channing let go of her hand with a frustrated sigh. He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "Jesus, Gisele. Not now. The power outage ruined my night, Constantine is pissed, and I have a headache. Don't ruin my mood with your depressing problems right now."

He turned and walked down the stairs, leaving her standing alone in the cold hallway.

Gisele watched Channing's back disappear down the grand staircase. The silence of the hallway pressed against her eardrums. A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach.

She couldn't go back to the ballroom. She couldn't face the music and the fake smiles.

She turned and practically ran down a narrow side corridor, pushing open the first unlocked door she found.

It was a small, dimly lit side room used for storing antique oil paintings. The air smelled of dust and old varnish. Gisele leaned her back against the heavy wooden door, sliding down until she hit the floor.

She pulled her phone from her clutch. The screen lit up with a text from Dr. Thaddeus.

If the balance isn't settled by tomorrow, we have to move Evelyn to the public ward.

A choked sob tore from her throat. She pressed the heel of her hand hard against her mouth to stifle the sound. She was out of options. She had to call the predatory loan company.

Just as her thumb hovered over the dial button, the door behind her burst open.

The force of it sent Gisele sprawling forward onto the hardwood floor. Her phone skittered away into the shadows.

She scrambled to her knees, her heart leaping into her throat.

He had followed the desperate, staccato echo of her heels, a sound of pure panic that had drawn him like a shark to blood in the water. Constantine stepped into the room. He closed the door behind him with a soft, ominous click. He stood there for a second, one hand casually slipped into the pocket of his tailored trousers, looking down at her like she was an insect he was deciding whether to crush.

The suffocating scent of cedar and bergamot filled the small space instantly.

Gisele pushed herself up, backing away until her shoulder blades hit the heavy, gilded frame of a Renaissance painting. There was nowhere else to go.

Constantine closed the distance between them with slow, predatory steps. He stopped just inches away, trapping her in the corner.

"Let's drop the act, Miss Cooper," he said, his voice a lethal whisper in the quiet room. "Tell me. What is your exact price? How much is Channing paying you to play the devoted, tragic girlfriend?"

Gisele's breath hitched. "I'm not-"

"Don't lie to me," he cut her off, his eyes flashing with a dangerous silver light. "I know exactly what you are. I've watched you cling to him for two years. You tolerate his cheating, his temper, his absolute uselessness. Why? Because you want the Warner name attached to your pathetic little architectural firm."

Every word was a precision strike. He was using the sharpest, most ruthless Wall Street vocabulary to dissect her life, reducing her dreams and her struggle to a cheap, gold-digging transaction.

"You don't know anything about me," Gisele fired back, her voice shaking with a mixture of fear and pure rage. She lifted her chin, refusing to look away from his piercing stare. "I made a mistake in that study. I thought you were him."

Constantine let out a dark, humorless laugh. "You thought I was him? My brother doesn't have the spine to stand up straight, let alone command a room. You knew exactly whose chest you were touching."

"You are a monster," Gisele spat, her chest heaving. "You sit up there in your ivory tower, judging people who are actually fighting to survive. You think money makes you a god."

Constantine's eyes darkened. He leaned in closer, his tall frame completely eclipsing the dim light.

"And you think your little struggle makes you noble?" he whispered cruelly. "He will never marry you, Gisele. You are a placeholder. A toy he uses to piss off our father. The second he gets bored, you'll be back in whatever Brooklyn slum you crawled out of."

The truth of his words sliced through her chest like a physical blade. She knew Channing didn't love her. She knew it was a transaction. But hearing it spoken out loud by this man broke the last thread of her composure.

Gisele bit down hard on the inside of her lower lip. She bit down until the metallic taste of blood flooded her mouth. She wouldn't cry in front of him. She absolutely refused.

"Move," she demanded, her voice thick with unshed tears.

Constantine didn't move. His gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. He saw the tiny bead of bright red blood welling up on her bottom lip.

Something inside Constantine snapped. The cold, calculating machine in his brain short-circuited. An instinct he didn't recognize, an impulse he couldn't control, urged him to close the distance, to erase the self-inflicted wound. He fought it, his body rigid with the effort. But the sight of her pain, caused by his own cruel words, was a magnetic pull he couldn't resist. With a motion that was both swift and filled with a strange, frantic revulsion, he pulled a pristine white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket. He lunged forward, not with his hand, but with the folded silk, dabbing harshly at the corner of her mouth.

Gisele gasped, her eyes flying wide open. The unexpected touch of the rough silk against her raw lip sent a violent shockwave through her entire body.

She jerked her head away, slapping his hand down. "Don't touch me!" she hissed, her voice filled with genuine revulsion.

The rejection hit Constantine like a physical blow. The momentary lapse in his control vanished, replaced by a surge of furious, defensive pride.

He lunged forward, his hand snapping out to grip her jaw, his fingers digging into her soft skin. He pulled her face up, forcing her to look at the raw, violent storm in his eyes.

"Don't play hard to get with me," he growled, his breath ghosting over her lips. "It's a dangerous game, and you don't have the chips to play it."

His chest was practically pressed against hers. Gisele could feel the rapid, heavy thud of his heartbeat through his suit. He was staring at her mouth, his eyes completely dilated.

Suddenly, the sharp, shrill ringtone of a phone shattered the tension.

Constantine flinched as if he had been shot. He dropped his hand from her jaw instantly, taking a rapid step back.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his private phone. He looked at the screen, then looked at his hand-the hand that had just touched her face.

A look of absolute disgust crossed his features. He pulled the same silk handkerchief he had just used on her from his breast pocket and began to wipe his fingers, scrubbing the skin as if she had infected him with a disease.

The gesture was the most humiliating thing Gisele had ever experienced. The tears she had been fighting finally spilled over, tracking hot paths down her cheeks.

Constantine answered the phone, his voice instantly returning to the cold, robotic tone of a CEO. "Speak."

He didn't take his eyes off her. As he listened to his assistant on the other end, he looked at Gisele, his face a mask of stone, and mouthed a single word.

Leave.

Gisele didn't need to be told twice. She grabbed her clutch from the floor and bolted out of the room, the sound of her heels echoing frantically down the hall.

Constantine stood alone in the dim room. He hung up the phone without saying another word. He looked down at the silk handkerchief in his hand, now stained with a tiny speck of her blood and the phantom touch of her skin. He could still feel the soft, warm skin of her jaw burning against his fingertips.

With a violent curse, he threw the expensive silk into the trash can.

Gisele locked herself in the nearest guest bathroom. She leaned over the marble sink, turning the gold faucet on full blast. The sound of rushing water drowned out her ragged breathing.

She splashed freezing water onto her face, trying to wash away the phantom roughness of his handkerchief on her lip.

He wiped his hand like I was garbage, she thought, her stomach twisting into a painful knot.

She grabbed a thick cotton towel, dried her face, and stared at her reflection. Her eyes were bloodshot, her makeup slightly smudged. She looked exactly like what Constantine said she was: a desperate, pathetic mess.

She pulled out her phone. The screen was cracked, but the ride-sharing app still worked. She typed in her Brooklyn address.

No cars available in your area.

Long Island was too far out, and the storm brewing outside was keeping drivers away. She was trapped.

She had to find Channing. She had to swallow her pride, endure his temper, and beg him to have his driver take her back to the city.

Gisele stepped out of the bathroom and began the long walk back toward the main entertaining areas. She chose the outer arched corridor, hoping to avoid the main crowds. The thick red carpet muffled her footsteps.

As she approached a corner that opened onto a large stone terrace, she heard voices. High-pitched, perfectly modulated voices of the Manhattan elite.

Gisele slowed her pace, pressing herself closer to the wall to pass unnoticed.

"...did you see what she's wearing?" a woman laughed, the sound sharp and cruel. "It looks like she bought it at a mall."

"I don't know why Channing keeps her around," another voice chimed in. "She's a nobody. A little Brooklyn girl trying to play dress-up."

Gisele's chest tightened. She squeezed her eyes shut, preparing to walk past them and ignore the venom.

"Oh, it won't last," the first woman said dismissively. "Constantine will never allow it. My husband was in a meeting with him last week, and Constantine made some off-hand comment about the 'Brooklyn parasite' Channing was keeping around. He despises her."

"God, really?" the second woman giggled. "He actually noticed she exists? I heard he's so ruthless, he doesn't even see people below a certain net worth. He probably looks right through her."

The words hit Gisele like a physical blow to the back of the head.

It wasn't some old grudge. It was current. Active. He was talking about her in boardrooms, reducing her to a pest, a parasite. His hatred wasn't just a reaction to her presence in his home; it was a calculated, ongoing campaign.

A wave of profound, sickening humiliation washed over her. Her hands shook so violently she dropped her clutch.

She didn't bother picking it up. She turned blindly and practically ran down the opposite hallway, her vision blurred with hot tears. She just needed to get out. She needed air.

She rounded a massive marble Roman column at full speed.

She slammed face-first into a solid wall of muscle and bone.

The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs. She stumbled backward, her ankles twisting in her high heels. She was going to fall hard onto the marble floor.

Suddenly, a strong, heavy arm wrapped around her waist.

The grip was iron-clad. It yanked her forward, pulling her flush against a hard chest. The familiar, intoxicating scent of cedar and bergamot flooded her senses.

Gisele gasped, her hands flying up to press against the man's chest to steady herself.

She looked up.

Constantine's dark gray eyes were staring down at her. His face was inches from hers. For one split second, his eyes weren't cold. They were wide, his pupils blown wide open, his arm holding her so tightly against him that she could feel the heavy, rapid thud of his heart.

Then, he looked up.

Over Constantine's shoulder, Gisele saw five men in expensive suits. The senior executives of the Warner empire. They were all staring at their notoriously germaphobic, untouchable boss, who was currently holding a woman tightly in his arms.

Constantine's expression morphed instantly. The brief flash of humanity vanished, replaced by a mask of absolute, freezing disdain.

He released her waist so fast she almost fell again. He took a large step back, putting a cold, professional distance between them.

"Watch where you are going," Constantine said. His voice was loud, flat, and completely devoid of emotion. It echoed down the hallway.

The executives immediately murmured in agreement, shooting Gisele looks of intense disapproval.

"I'm sorry," Gisele whispered, her face burning with shame. She looked down at the floor, unable to meet his eyes.

Constantine didn't acknowledge her apology. He adjusted his cuffs, his jaw ticking. He stepped forward to walk past her.

As he passed, he didn't move out of the way. His broad shoulder slammed hard into hers.

The physical impact sent Gisele stumbling sideways. She had to grab the Roman column to keep from falling.

As his shoulder hit hers, Constantine used the momentum to lean in, his head dropping just enough for his lips to brush the shell of her ear, his voice a lethal, vibrating whisper meant only for her.

"Stop haunting my hallways like a ghost. Get out of my sight."

He kept walking, his executives trailing behind him like a pack of wolves.

Gisele clung to the cold marble column. Her shoulder throbbed from the impact. Her heart felt like it had been shredded into pieces. The sheer cruelty of his physical rejection in front of his staff was a masterclass in humiliation.

She bit her lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood again.

I will not let him break me, she told herself, her fingernails digging into the stone. One day, I will stand above him.

"Miss Cooper."

Gisele jumped. Channing's personal assistant, a man with a perpetually bored expression, was standing a few feet away.

"Mr. Warner is waiting for you in the private lounge," the assistant said coldly. "He requests you join him immediately."

Gisele took a deep, shuddering breath. She smoothed down the front of her cheap dress. She had to face Channing. She had to get the money.

"Lead the way," she said, her voice hollow.