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.

Gisele walked through the grand foyer of the estate like a ghost. The music from the ballroom sounded like underwater noise. She pushed open the massive front doors and stepped out onto the portico.

A violent Long Island thunderstorm had rolled in. Sheets of freezing rain lashed against the marble steps, driven by a howling wind. The driveway was empty. No taxis. No ride-shares. Just a wall of black water.

Gisele stood under the awning, shivering violently in her thin black dress. She wrapped her arms around herself, her teeth chattering.

Suddenly, the deafening roar of a V8 engine echoed from the underground garage.

A bright red Ferrari shot up the ramp, its tires screeching on the wet pavement. It skidded to a halt right in front of the portico.

The tinted passenger window rolled down.

Channing was in the driver's seat, wearing dark sunglasses despite the night. Sitting next to him, laughing and holding a bottle of champagne, was a stunning blonde woman in a dress that barely covered her chest.

Gisele's stomach violently heaved. The betrayal was so sudden, so brazen, it took her breath away.

Channing leaned over the blonde, looking at Gisele with absolute boredom. "I'm going to the city. Constantine ruined my night. Don't wait up."

Panic, raw and desperate, clawed its way up Gisele's throat. The hospital. The money.

She ran down the marble steps, the freezing rain instantly soaking her hair and dress. She grabbed the edge of the passenger window, ignoring the blonde's disgusted look.

"Channing, please!" Gisele screamed over the sound of the engine and the rain. "My mother! They're going to kick her out tomorrow! Just give me the loan you promised. Please!"

Channing rolled his eyes, a look of profound annoyance crossing his face. "Jesus, Gisele. You are a broken record. You ruin everything with your depressing poverty."

He reached into the center console. He pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills.

He didn't hand them to her. He threw them.

The heavy stack of cash hit Gisele in the chest and exploded. Dozens of Benjamin Franklins fluttered into the air, instantly caught by the wind and the driving rain, scattering across the muddy driveway.

"Buy yourself a cab," Channing sneered.

He hit the gas. The Ferrari roared, its rear tires kicking up a spray of dirty water that splashed across Gisele's legs, before disappearing down the long driveway.

Gisele stood alone in the torrential rain. The freezing water plastered her dress to her skin. She looked down at the hundred-dollar bills floating in the muddy puddles around her feet.

She didn't bend down to pick them up.

Her dignity was dead, but she wouldn't scrape it off the pavement.

"Miss."

Gisele turned slowly. The estate's head butler was standing under the awning, holding a large black umbrella. His face was a mask of polite disdain.

"Mr. Warner requested that you not loiter at the front entrance," the butler said coldly. "If you are unable to leave due to the weather, I have prepared a room for you in the staff quarters at the back of the house."

He wasn't offering hospitality. He was putting her in her place.

Gisele nodded numbly. She followed him around the side of the massive house, the wind biting through her soaked clothes.

The staff room was tiny, smelling of bleach and cheap linen. The moment the butler closed the door, leaving her alone, Gisele's legs gave out.

She slid down the wooden door, hitting the floor hard. She pulled her knees to her chest, buried her face in her arms, and let out a raw, agonizing sob. She cried until her throat was raw, mourning her mother, her pride, and the two years she had wasted on a monster.

After what felt like hours, her phone buzzed in her clutch.

It was a text from her younger brother, Miles.

Hospital just called. Mom's heart rate dropped again. They need the money by 8 AM or they stop the expensive meds. Please tell me you got it.

Gisele stared at the screen. Her vision blurred.

She wiped her eyes fiercely with the back of her hand. She couldn't break down. She stripped off the freezing, wet dress and found an oversized, faded cotton nightgown in the small closet. She pulled it on, shivering as the dry fabric touched her icy skin.

Her stomach let out a painful, hollow cramp. She hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. If she was going to fight tomorrow, she needed food.

She opened the door and crept down the dark, narrow servant hallways. The house was dead silent. It was past 2 AM.

She found the massive, industrial-grade main kitchen. Only a single, dim amber light burned over the massive marble island.

Gisele moved silently on bare feet. She didn't dare touch the expensive refrigerators. She opened a dry pantry and found a cheap box of plain spaghetti.

She filled a pot with water, turned on the gas stove, and watched the blue flames flicker. She stood there, staring at the water, her mind racing with desperate plans to find investors.

A soft, distinct sound of a leather slipper scuffing against the marble floor broke the silence.

Gisele froze. The wooden spoon in her hand slipped, clattering loudly against the edge of the metal pot.

She spun around.

Constantine was standing in the arched doorway of the kitchen.

He was wearing a dark gray silk robe, tied loosely at the waist, revealing a V of hard, muscular chest. He held an empty crystal water glass in one hand.

His dark, predatory eyes locked onto her, pinning her to the spot.