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.

The second-floor private lounge was a sanctuary of extreme wealth. Dark mahogany paneled the walls, and the air smelled of expensive cigars and aged leather.

Gisele pushed the heavy door open.

Channing was sprawled across a massive silk sofa, his tie undone, intensely focused on a video game playing on an eighty-inch screen. He didn't even look up when she walked in.

"Close the door," he muttered, mashing the buttons on his controller. "The noise from downstairs is giving me a migraine."

Gisele closed the door quietly. She walked over to the edge of the sofa, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Her stomach was tied in painful knots.

"Channing," she started, her voice soft. "I need to talk to you about the hospital. The billing department called again. If I don't have the transfer by tomorrow-"

"Gisele, please," Channing groaned, pausing the game and throwing his head back against the cushions. "I told you I'm not in the mood. Go to the bar and pour me a whiskey. Three cubes of ice. Make yourself useful."

The dismissal was a slap to the face. Gisele's fingernails dug into her palms. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him her mother was dying, but she swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She needed his money.

She turned and walked to the crystal bar cart in the corner. She picked up the heavy decanter, her hands shaking slightly, and poured the amber liquid over the ice.

The glass door leading to the private terrace suddenly slid open.

A gust of cold night air blew into the room, bringing with it the sharp scent of cedarwood.

Gisele's hand jerked. The crystal tongs hit the side of the glass with a sharp clink. Her entire body went rigid.

Constantine walked into the room. He held a thick leather folder in one hand. He didn't even glance at Gisele. He walked straight to the single leather armchair at the head of the room-the seat of power-and sat down, crossing his long legs. He opened the folder and began reading.

The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. The air became heavy, suffocating.

Channing immediately sat up straight, tossing the game controller onto the rug. He smoothed his hair, his lazy demeanor vanishing into nervous energy.

Gisele picked up the whiskey glass. She walked over to Channing and handed it to him.

"Thank you," Channing said quickly, taking a sip. He looked at his brother. "Constantine, do you want a drink?"

Constantine didn't look up from his papers. "Sparkling water. No ice."

Channing snapped his fingers at Gisele, pointing to the bar. "You heard him. Go."

Gisele's jaw clenched. She was his girlfriend, not the hired help. But with Constantine sitting there, radiating cold authority, she didn't dare cause a scene. She turned back to the bar and poured a glass of sparkling water.

"And pick up my controller," Channing ordered from the sofa.

Gisele walked back. She set the water down on the glass coffee table in front of Constantine. Then, she bent down to pick up the controller from the rug.

Her dress had a slightly low neckline. As she bent over, she felt a sudden, intense prickle of heat on the back of her neck.

She glanced up.

Constantine wasn't looking at his papers anymore. His dark gray eyes were fixed directly on her. His gaze was heavy, dark, and burning with a suppressed, violent energy. He was watching her bend over for his brother.

Gisele snatched the controller and stood up quickly, her face burning with a mixture of shame and a strange, terrifying heat.

Constantine slowly shifted his gaze to the glass of water she had placed in front of him.

He stared at it for a long moment. Then, his jaw ticked.

"There is a fingerprint on the rim of this glass," Constantine said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Gisele froze. "I... I held it by the base."

Constantine finally looked up at her. His eyes were devoid of any warmth. "Take it back. Wash your hands. Bring me a clean glass. I don't drink from dirty things."

The insult was so blatant, so intentionally cruel, that Gisele felt the blood drain from her face. Her stomach plummeted.

Channing let out a short, nervous laugh. "Jesus, Gisele. You're so clumsy. Go wash it. Try to act like you've been in a nice house before."

Gisele stared at Channing. Her boyfriend. The man who was supposed to protect her. He was laughing at her humiliation to score points with his brother.

A cold, dead feeling began to spread through Gisele's chest.

She picked up the glass without a word. She walked into the small attached kitchenette and turned on the sink. The sound of the water running covered the sound of her ragged breathing. She gripped the edges of the marble counter, her knuckles turning white. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the tears of pure, unadulterated rage.

She saw the dishwasher, but knew that wouldn't be good enough. Her eyes scanned the pristine glass-fronted cabinets. Deep in the back of a lower cupboard, she found what she was looking for: a cardboard box of new crystal tumblers, still sealed from the manufacturer. She ripped the tape with her fingernail, pulled one out, its surface cold and untouched, and poured the sparkling water.

She walked back out and placed it gently on the table.

Constantine watched her face. He saw the dead, hollow look in her eyes. A muscle in his jaw feathered violently. He thought she was enduring this humiliation because she loved Channing. The thought made his blood boil with a toxic, irrational jealousy.

Channing tugged at his collar. "Gisele, come here. My tie is choking me. Fix it."

Gisele stood perfectly still for a second. Then, moving like a robot, she walked over to Channing. She stood between his knees. She looked down, her fingers reaching out to untie the silk knot.

Constantine's hands gripped the leather folder. The leather creaked under the immense pressure of his fingers. He watched her soft hands touch his brother's chest.

SLAM.

Constantine slammed the heavy folder shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Channing jumped, violently shoving Gisele away from him.

Gisele stumbled backward, her heel catching on the rug. She fell hard onto her knees, the impact sending a sharp jolt of pain up her legs.

Constantine stood up. His towering frame dominated the room. He looked down at Gisele on the floor, his eyes blazing with a terrifying, destructive fury.

"This is a private family lounge," Constantine snarled, his voice vibrating with rage. He looked at Channing. "Not a cheap motel room for you to grope your hired company. Get her out of my sight before I have security throw her out."

The words were a brutal, fatal blow.

Channing's face went pale. He looked at his furious brother, then down at Gisele.

"You heard him," Channing spat at her, his voice dripping with venom to save his own ego. "Get out, Gisele. You're embarrassing me."

Gisele slowly stood up. Her knees ached. But the pain in her body was nothing compared to the absolute, freezing clarity in her mind.

She didn't cry. She didn't argue.

She looked at Channing. She saw him for exactly what he was: a weak, pathetic coward.

Then she looked at Constantine. She met his furious, burning gaze with eyes that were completely dead.

She turned around and walked out of the room. She closed the heavy mahogany door behind her, sealing the two monsters inside.