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."

The light in the penthouse was assaultive. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling, scattering diamonds of light that pierced Felicity's headache.

Barnett didn't let her go. He gripped her waist, his fingers digging into her ribs through the fabric of his jacket. He steered her into the room like a prize heifer at a county fair.

"Look who I found!" Barnett announced to a group of B-list actors near the bar.

Heads turned. The whispering started immediately. It sounded like a hive of bees.

"Is that Felicity Aguilar?"

"Why is she wearing that?"

"I heard they lost everything. Even the Hamptons house."

Felicity kept her head down. She focused on the pattern of the Persian rug. Red. Gold. Black.

Barnett paraded her through the room. He was enjoying this. He was showing everyone that the untouchable girl was now touchable.

Dewitt stood on the mezzanine balcony. He held a glass of scotch. He hadn't taken a sip. He watched Barnett dragging Felicity through the crowd.

Carter Vance walked up to the railing next to him.

"Rough night for the princess," Carter observed. "Barnett is a piece of work. Parading her around like a pet."

Dewitt swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "As long as his pet doesn't have fleas that jump onto my guests."

Down below, a woman in a red dress bumped into Felicity. It was deliberate. A shoulder check.

"Oops!" the woman squealed. Her wine glass tipped. Cabernet splashed all over the front of Barnett's jacket that Felicity was wearing.

The dark stain spread rapidly.

Felicity gasped and stepped back. The cold liquid soaked through to her skin.

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry," the woman said. Her eyes were bright with malice. It was a stylist Felicity had fired two years ago for stealing jewelry.

Barnett didn't help. He laughed.

"Don't worry about it," he said loud enough for everyone to hear. "It's not like she has anything better to wear underneath."

The circle of people laughed. It was a cruel, low sound.

Felicity felt the heat rising up her neck. She felt naked. Exposed. She instinctively looked up. Toward the balcony. Toward the only person in the room who had more power than Barnett.

Her eyes locked with Dewitt's.

Help me, she pleaded silently.

Dewitt looked at her. He saw the wine stain. He saw the desperation.

He watched the pathetic display for a moment longer, a flicker of contempt in his eyes for the cheap drama unfolding on his marble floors. Then, without a word, he turned his back on the scene completely and faced the city skyline.

Felicity felt her heart stop. He wasn't going to help. He was one of them.

Barnett decided the show was over. He leaned into her ear.

"You're a mess. Let's go get you cleaned up."

He didn't mean cleaned up.

He grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the crowd, toward the hallway that led to the guest suites.

Felicity tried to dig her heels in. "No, I want to go home."

"You don't have a home," Barnett whispered.

He dragged her into the shadows of the corridor.

Up on the balcony, Dewitt watched them disappear into the hallway. The noise of the party seemed to fade into a dull roar. His hand tightened around his glass.

He heard Carter talking about a merger, but the words meant nothing.

All he could see was the look in her eyes. It wasn't the look of a woman playing a game. It was the look of an animal caught in a trap.

Dewitt set his glass down on the railing. It made a sharp clink.

"I need air," he said.

Carter looked confused. "The terrace is that way."

Dewitt turned and walked toward the stairs. Toward the guest wing.

"I know where I'm going."