Dewitt Knight tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of the Bugatti. The leather was smooth under his fingertips, but his patience was wearing thin. In his ear, Carter Vance was droning on about market volatility and Asian futures.

Dewitt killed the engine. The roar of the W16 engine died instantly, leaving only the hum of the garage ventilation system.

"Are you listening to me, Dewitt?" Carter asked.

Dewitt didn't answer. He was staring through his windshield.

Directly in front of his reserved spot, a stretch Lincoln was parked crookedly. It was taking up two spaces. But it wasn't the parking job that bothered him.

The car was shaking.

It was a rhythmic, violent motion. The shocks squeaked. A dull thudding sound echoed off the concrete walls of the VIP garage.

Dewitt frowned. This was a private garage. It was supposed to be sterile. Orderly.

He watched as the rear window of the Lincoln remained open by several inches. A hand shot out. It was pale. Slender. The fingers were clawing at the empty air.

On the ring finger, a flash of brilliant, unmistakable pink glinted in the harsh overhead lights.

Dewitt felt a familiar flicker of distaste. He'd seen rings like that before, ostentatious and desperate, usually on the fingers of women who traded dignity for a line of credit at Cartier.

He let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Carter, I'm hanging up," Dewitt said.

"Is everything alright?"

"Just some trash that needs to be taken out. Two animals are mating in my parking spot."

The hand in the window suddenly went rigid. Then it convulsed. It went limp, draping over the edge of the glass like a dead thing.

Dewitt felt a prick of irritation. It didn't look like passion. It looked like desperation.

A sound drifted through the crack in the window. It wasn't a moan. It was a sob. A high, broken sound that scraped against Dewitt's nerves.

He pulled the earpiece out and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He unbuckled his seatbelt. He hated this. He hated the messiness of other people's lives bleeding into his.

The car rocked again. The hand slipped from the window frame.

Dewitt slammed his hand onto the horn.

The sound was deafening. It bounced off the low ceiling and amplified.

The Lincoln stopped moving instantly.

Dewitt leaned back in his seat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. He lit a cigarette, the flame of the lighter illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He inhaled deeply and watched the Lincoln through the haze of smoke.

He waited.

It took ten seconds. The rear door of the Lincoln opened.

A man stumbled out. He was tucking his shirt into his trousers. His face was flushed red. His hair was a mess.

Dewitt recognized him immediately. Barnett Orr. The producer. A man who thought money could buy class.

Barnett squinted into the headlights of the Bugatti. When he saw the license plate, the color drained from his face. He knew whose spot he had taken.

Dewitt didn't look at Barnett. His eyes were fixed on the open door of the Lincoln. The interior was dark. The woman hadn't come out.

"Get out," Dewitt said to the windshield.

Barnett started walking toward the Bugatti, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. He was smiling, but it looked like a grimace.

Dewitt watched the dark opening of the car door. He waited for the gold digger to emerge. He wanted to see the woman who would sell herself in a parking garage for a producer credit.

Dewitt pushed his car door open. He stepped out onto the concrete. He didn't smooth his suit. He didn't adjust his cuffs. He just stood there, leaning against the side of his car, radiating a cold, lethal calm.

Barnett jogged over, fumbling with the top button of his shirt.

"Mr. Knight!" Barnett's voice was too loud, too eager. "I didn't realize you were in the city. We were just... having a private meeting."

Dewitt took a drag of his cigarette. He looked Barnett up and down.

"A meeting," Dewitt repeated. "Is that what they call it now?"

Inside the Lincoln, Felicity froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She knew that voice. It was deep, velvet wrapped around steel. Dewitt Knight.

She remembered him from the gala last year. Before the fall. Before the handcuffs and the headlines. He had looked at her then with polite indifference. Now, if he saw her like this, he would look at her with disgust.

She couldn't let him see her.

She looked around frantically. On the floor, tangled in her torn dress, was Barnett's suit jacket. He had taken it off earlier when the heat in the car rose.

It smelled like him. It made her skin crawl. But it was coverage.

She grabbed the jacket and pulled it around her shoulders. She buttoned it with shaking fingers. It was huge on her. It swallowed her frame. She pulled her knees up and huddled in the corner, praying he would just drive away.

"Who is in the car?" Dewitt asked.

Barnett shifted his weight. "Oh, just some talent. Nobody important. We should get out of your hair."

Dewitt dropped his cigarette. He crushed it under the heel of his Italian leather shoe.

"I asked who is in the car."

He didn't wait for an answer. He walked past Barnett.

Barnett tried to step in front of him. "Mr. Knight, really, it's not appropriate-"

Dewitt didn't even slow down. He just looked at Barnett. One look. It was enough to make the producer step back as if he'd been physically shoved.

Dewitt stopped at the open door of the Lincoln. The smell hit him first. Sweat. Expensive perfume. And something metallic. Blood.

He leaned down.

Felicity pressed herself against the far door. She pulled the jacket tighter, burying her face in the lapel.

Dewitt saw a small figure wrapped in a man's oversized jacket. She was trembling. Not a little shiver. She was vibrating with it.

"Look at me," Dewitt commanded.

Felicity shook her head.

Dewitt reached out. He didn't touch her skin. He grabbed the lapel of the jacket.

Barnett appeared at Dewitt's elbow. He reached in and grabbed Felicity's arm, yanking her forward.

"Don't be rude, darling. Say hello to Mr. Knight."

The sudden motion dislodged the jacket. It slipped off her left shoulder.

The strap of her dress was torn completely. The silk hung in tatters. On her upper arm, five distinct finger marks were blooming into purple bruises.

Dewitt saw the bruise. Then he saw her face.

Her lip was swollen. A small trickle of blood had dried at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were wide, amber-colored, and filled with a terror so raw it felt like a physical blow. And on her hand, the one he had seen from his car, was the unmistakable fire of the Aguilar pink diamond. He had seen it in the Christie's catalog months ago. One of the few assets the family hadn't liquidated before the scandal broke.

"Felicity Aguilar," Dewitt said. His voice was flat.

Felicity yanked the jacket back up. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, burning through the shame. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

Barnett laughed nervously. "You remember her. Hard to forget the Aguilar name, right? Even if it's mud now."

Dewitt stared at her. He saw the torn dress. The bruises. The man's jacket.

And in his mind, the pieces clicked together into the only picture that made sense to a man who saw everything as a transaction.

She was selling herself. And she had let things get rough to increase the price.

Dewitt looked at the bruise on her arm, then up to her eyes. His expression didn't soften. It hardened. The temperature in the garage seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Aguilar," he said. The name sounded like a curse word in his mouth.

Felicity looked down at her bare feet. She couldn't meet his gaze. If she looked at him, she would cry, and she had promised herself she wouldn't give Barnett the satisfaction of more tears.

Barnett sensed the shift in Dewitt's mood. He leaned against the car door, his confidence returning.

"Sad story, really," Barnett said, smoothing his hair. "She came to me begging for a role. Any role. Said she'd do anything to pay off her father's legal fees. I was just... testing her commitment."

Felicity's head snapped up. "That's not-"

Barnett's hand squeezed her arm. He dug his thumb into the fresh bruise.

Felicity gasped. The pain was sharp and blinding. She remembered the contract. The Non-Disclosure Agreement. And the threat against her father.

She shut her mouth. She swallowed the truth. It tasted like bile.

"See?" Barnett smiled at Dewitt. "She knows her place."

Dewitt looked at Felicity. He was waiting for her to deny it. He was waiting for the fire he remembered from the gala. But she just sat there, trembling, letting this slime touch her.

"So the rumors are true," Dewitt said. "The Aguilars really will do anything for money now. Even this."

The words hit Felicity harder than Barnett's hand had. She felt something inside her chest crack. It wasn't her heart. It was her pride. The last little piece of it she had been holding onto.

Dewitt turned on his heel. He walked toward the elevator bank.

"Get her out of my sight, Barnett. And if I ever see your car in my spot again, I'll have it crushed. With you in it."

Barnett scrambled to get Felicity out of the car. "Come on," he hissed.

He dragged her toward the elevators. Felicity stumbled. Her legs felt like rubber. She clutched the oversized jacket closed with one hand, Barnett gripping her other arm like a vice.

Dewitt reached the elevator bank and pressed the call button. The doors opened to reveal a chattering group of guests who slowly filed out, delaying his ascent. It was during that brief, irritating pause that Barnett finally caught up, dragging Felicity behind him. They reached the elevator just as the last guest cleared the doorway. Barnett jammed his hand in to stop the doors from closing.

They stepped inside.

The elevator was mirrored on all sides. It was a kaleidoscope of misery.

Dewitt stood at the front, his back to them. He was staring at the floor indicator numbers. His posture was rigid.

Felicity stood in the back corner. She looked at Dewitt's reflection. He looked perfect. Untouchable. A god in a bespoke suit.

She looked at her own reflection. Hair matted. Lip bleeding. Wearing her abuser's coat. She looked like exactly what he thought she was. A whore.

Barnett leaned in close to her ear. His breath was hot and wet.

"See?" he whispered. "Even Knight thinks you're trash. You belong to me now."

Felicity squeezed her eyes shut. She bit the tip of her tongue until the sharp pain grounded her.

Dewitt saw the movement in the reflection. He saw Barnett whispering to her. He saw her face scrunch up.

He thought it was intimacy. He thought it was a lover's whisper.

His stomach rolled. Disgust washed over him. Disgust at her. Disgust at Barnett. And a strange, burning anger he couldn't name.

The elevator chimed. Penthouse.

The doors slid open. Music poured in. Laughter. The clink of crystal glasses.

Henderson, the butler, was waiting. He took one look at the trio and his professional mask slipped for a fraction of a second.

"Sir," Henderson said.

Dewitt stepped out. He didn't look back.

"Henderson, handle this mess. I don't want any unpleasantries at my party."