The next day, Amie barricaded herself in the smallest attic room. The air was stuffy. Her old laptop whirred as she downloaded blueprints and zoning regulations, sketches littering the desk. The bruise on her cheekbone had dulled to purple. Every time she caught it in her screen's reflection, she remembered exactly what she was fighting for.

Downstairs, Iola complained from a plush velvet sofa. "Mother, is Dad really letting that adopted girl handle Sterling Point? What if she actually succeeds?"

Donna Mills took a measured sip of tea. "Darling. Do you really think your father would hand a multi-billion-dollar project to a girl whose only value is that we haven't thrown her out yet? He's buying time. Let him." She set her cup down. "As for her actually winning—we'll make sure she doesn't get that far."

From her Hermès bag, she produced a small, unmarked glass vial. "High-concentration sleeping aid. Colorless. Odorless. Tonight, you'll go check on your sister."

Iola's eyes lit up. "What about Pierce?"

"Already arranged. He'll be at the St. Regis." Donna smoothed the silk of her dress. "Amie has no birthright, no inheritance, no prospects. Pierce Grant may not be a prince, but he's a Grant. That's more than a girl like her could ever hope for on her own. Once she's settled, she'll understand. We all make sacrifices for family."

That night, after Iola went upstairs, Donna sat alone in the darkened living room. The vial was no longer in her bag. She didn't enjoy this. She hadn't enjoyed any of it. But Amie had left her no choice. The girl was about to destroy everything the family had built over a childish fantasy of independence. Sometimes clarity came in forms that looked, to the untrained eye, like cruelty.

She poured herself another cup of tea and waited.

That evening, Amie stared at a structural problem on her screen, head throbbing from exhaustion. The door creaked open.

Iola stepped inside and set a glass on the desk. "You've been at this all day. Drink something."

Amie was too drained to question the gesture. "Thank you, Iola."

She drank. Iola watched her, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes, then left.

Thirty minutes later, dizziness crashed over her. The room tilted. She tried to stand—her legs buckled. She collapsed onto the rug. The last thing she saw was the door opening and two bodyguards lifting her from the floor.

When awareness surfaced, she was on an unfamiliar king-sized bed. The air reeked of cigars and cologne. Her limbs were useless, heavy as stone.

The bathroom door opened.

Pierce Grant walked out in a silk robe. He saw her stirring, and his smile spread like oil on water. "Little beauty. Your father gift-wrapped you for me." He untied his robe as he approached. "Stop struggling. Once I'm done, you'll be begging to marry me."

Amie's blood went cold. The milk. Iola. Donna. Her own family had drugged her and delivered her to a predator. The drug made it nearly impossible to move, but survival instinct screamed louder. Her eyes landed on a heavy brass lamp on the nightstand.

"Don't worry. I'll make you comfortable." Pierce moved closer.

"Water..." She forced the word out, slurred and small. "Please..."

Believing she'd surrendered, Pierce turned toward the minibar.

Amie lunged. She seized the lamp and swung with everything she had.

It connected with the back of his skull in a wet, sickening crack.

Pierce screamed—an inhuman shriek—and collapsed, blood welling black between his fingers.

Amie scrambled off the bed and ran.

She burst into the hallway. The drug dragged at her limbs, the corridor stretching and tilting. Behind her, muffled shouts. Bodyguards.

Ahead, a door sat slightly ajar, a blade of golden light cutting across the carpet. She threw herself through it, slammed it shut, and fumbled the deadbolt into place.

Her body gave out against the door.

In the dim light—a silhouette on a leather sofa. A single ember of a cigarette glowing and fading in the dark.

The man rose. His shadow swallowed her. He crouched down.

Amie looked up into a pair of eyes, deep and cold as a winter lake.

"Help... me..."

Then everything went black.

Harlon Grant knelt, studying the woman collapsed on his floor. Flushed face. Shallow, ragged breathing. Bare feet. A bruise blooming on her cheekbone—fresh, still darkening.

The footsteps came before he could make a decision. Heavy. At least two men. Their voices carried through the door, muffled but urgent. "She can't have gone far. Check the stairwell."

Harlon didn't move. He looked at the woman on his floor, then at the door. The men were hunting her. A drugged, barefoot woman with a fresh bruise on her face, running from men who moved like security contractors.

He'd seen this before. Years ago, at a business dinner—a girl no older than twenty, glassy-eyed, being steered toward a private elevator by two men in suits. He told himself it wasn't his problem. He finished his drink and walked away. The next morning, the news reported a body found in the nearby river. He never forgot it. And he never forgave himself.

He reached down and lifted the woman off the floor.

She was lighter than he expected, her skin hot through the fabric of her dress. He laid her on the bed and stepped back.

He pressed a damp cloth to her forehead. She murmured something and turned her face into the pillow. The night stretched. Harlon stayed in the armchair by the window, replacing the compress every hour. He'd seen people drugged before. The first hours were the worst. After that, you waited.

He texted his assistant: Women's clothes, size small. St. Regis. Within the hour.

Morning sunlight cut through the curtains.

Amie woke to a splitting headache. She was in bed, under covers. Her dress was wrinkled and stained but intact. Fragments of the night before crashed back: the milk, Pierce's face, the lamp, the desperate run, the shadowy figure.

She sat up too fast. Her head pounded.

The bathroom door opened. A man walked out—tall, dark-haired, suit jacket still off, shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms. He saw her awake and gave a slight nod, as if finding a strange woman in his hotel room were a routine occurrence.

"Who are you?" Her voice scraped out of her. "Last night—did we—"

"No." He placed a glass of water on the nightstand. "You were drugged. You broke into my room. Nothing happened."

Before she could respond, his phone rang. He walked to the window. "Mother. I told you—I'll handle my own affairs."

The voice on the other end cut through, sharp enough that Amie caught every word. "...final deadline... you must bring a woman home within three days... or I will arrange the marriage myself. This is not a negotiation, Harlon."

"I know." He ended the call. The silence in the room was suddenly heavier than it had been a moment ago.

Amie stared at him. Three days. He needed a wife fast.

"Your name," she said. "Your full name."

"Harlon Grant."

Grant. She almost laughed out loud. She'd spent the night running from one Grant and had somehow ended up in the hotel room of another. "You're related to Pierce."

"Distant cousin." His tone shut the subject closed. "We don't speak."

But Amie's mind was already moving. This man had kept her alive while she was completely defenseless. He needed a wife within three days, before his family forced one on him. She needed a husband to escape Richard Mills' grip. They were both cornered.

She met his eyes. "You need a wife. I need a husband. Marry me."

His expression shifted—a hairline crack. Surprise, quickly masked. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough. I know you didn't hurt me when I couldn't fight back. I know your mother is about to chain you to someone you don't want." She sat up straighter, ignoring the pounding in her skull. "A contract marriage. We don't interfere in each other's lives. When the time is right, we divorce. I don't want your money. I just need a legal status that Richard Mills can't override."

Harlon looked at her. Bruised. Barefoot. Eyes clear and unafraid. "Why you?"

"Because whatever woman your family picks—she'll have an agenda. I don't. I just want my freedom." She paused. "I'm a good bet."

A long silence. Then a single, decisive nod.

"Alright." He glanced at his watch. "Get dressed. My assistant will have the documents here in an hour. City Hall by nine."

He gestured to a shopping bag on the chair. Inside was a dress—simple, elegant, exactly her size. "I guessed."

Amie watched him, her mind reeling. She'd walked into the gala a disposable placeholder. Now here she was. Still better than last night.