Ayla needed air. She needed to scream.

"Excuse me," she murmured, pushing back her chair. "I need to check on the dessert."

Spencer didn't even look up from his conversation with Chloe. "Don't be long."

Ayla walked out of the dining room, keeping her head high until the double doors swung shut behind her. Then she slumped, gasping for breath. The hallway was empty. The staff was busy in the main kitchen.

She ducked into the butler's pantry, a narrow, walk-in storage room lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves of silver platters and crystal glassware. It smelled of silver polish and dried lavender. It was quiet. Dark.

Ayla leaned against the cool metal shelving, pressing her forehead against the wire rack. Just breathe. Just survive tonight.

The door handle clicked.

She spun around. "Henderson, I was just-"

It wasn't Henderson.

Julian slipped inside, closing the door behind him. The lock clicked with a sound that echoed like a gunshot in the small space.

"Julian," Ayla hissed. "You can't be here."

"Neither can you," he said. He moved forward, crowding her. The pantry was tiny. There was nowhere to go. Her back hit the shelves, the crystal glasses rattling ominously.

"If Spencer sees you-"

"Spencer is too busy staring down his mistress's dress to notice I'm gone," Julian said. His voice was hard, angry.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and sharp. Ayla's disposable scalpel, glinting in the sliver of light from under the door.

He held it up between his thumb and forefinger. "You forgot this."

Ayla reached for it. "Give it to me."

He pulled his hand back, lifting it high above his head. He stepped closer, his body pressing against hers. She could feel the heat radiating off him through his tuxedo.

"Why do you stay?" he demanded. "Was this meant to be a message? A surgeon's warning? I watched them tonight. They treat you like a dog. Worse."

"It's complicated," she whispered, staring at his tie knot because she couldn't look him in the eye.

"It's money," he corrected. "It's always money. How much is he paying you to take that abuse?"

"It's for my mother," she snapped, tears pricking her eyes. "He pays her medical bills. She has cancer. Without his specialists, she dies. Is that simple enough for you?"

Julian went still. The anger in his eyes shifted, replaced by something darker, something unreadable.

"So you sold yourself," he said softly. "To save her."

"I did what I had to do."

"And last night?" he asked. He lowered his hand, but he didn't give her the scalpel. He placed his palm flat against the shelf next to her head, boxing her in. "Was that part of the sale?"

"No," she breathed. "Last night was... a mistake."

"Liar." He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. She shivered violently. "Last night was the only honest thing you've done in years."

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. The heavy tread of the butler. Voices.

Ayla froze. Julian didn't move. He just watched her, his eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness.

"Mr. Sterling?" Henderson's voice called out from the other side of the door.

Ayla held her breath, her heart hammering so hard she thought it would crack her ribs. If they were found...

Julian waited a beat. Then another. Torturing her.

Then, he leaned back slightly. "I'm in here," he called out, his voice calm. "Looking for the restroom. Took a wrong turn."

"Ah," Henderson said. "The restroom is down the hall to the left, sir."

"Thank you."

The footsteps faded.

Ayla's knees gave out. She sagged against the shelf. Julian caught her, his arm wrapping around her waist to hold her up. His grip was iron.

"You enjoy this," she accused, pushing at his chest. "You enjoy terrifying me."

"I enjoy making you feel something other than misery," he countered. He grabbed her hand and slapped the scalpel into her palm. His fingers lingered, squeezing hers.

"Get out," she whispered.

"I'm leaving," he said. "But this isn't over, Ayla. I don't like sharing my things."

"I'm not a thing. And I'm certainly not yours."

He smirked. "We'll see."

He unlocked the door and slipped out.

Ayla waited five minutes, counting to three hundred, before she dared to leave. She checked her reflection in a silver platter. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips looked swollen.

She walked back into the dining room. Dessert was being served.

Spencer glared at her as she sat down. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Bathroom," she muttered.

"You missed the toast," Chloe said, licking chocolate mousse off her spoon. "Julian had to leave early. Said he had an urgent matter to attend to."

"Probably bored," Spencer said dismissively. "He's a busy man."

The dinner dragged on for another hour. By the time the last guest left, Ayla's feet were throbbing and her head was pounding.

She walked toward the stairs, desperate for sleep.

"Ayla," Spencer called out from the living room.

She stopped, hand on the railing. "Yes?"

He was pouring a brandy. Chloe was sitting on the sofa, her shoes kicked off, her legs curled under her. She looked at home.

"Sleep in the guest room tonight," Spencer said, not looking at Ayla. "Chloe had too much to drink. She can't drive back to the city."

The air left the room.

"You want me to sleep in the guest room," Ayla said slowly, "so your mistress can sleep in our bed?"

Spencer turned, his face cold. "It's my bed, Ayla. My house. You just live here. Now go."

Chloe giggled.

Ayla looked at them. The hatred she felt was so pure, so sharp, it almost frightened her.

"Fine," she said.

She turned and walked up the stairs. She didn't cry. She was done crying.

The guest room bathroom was smaller than the master, the tiles older, the water pressure weak. Ayla stood under the spray, watching the water run clear.

She stepped out and wiped the steam from the mirror. A fresh bruise was blooming on her hip where she had slammed into the pantry shelf. It was a mottled purple, ugly against her pale skin.

She wrapped a robe around herself and walked into the bedroom. The balcony doors were slightly ajar. The curtains billowed inward.

Ayla frowned. She had closed them.

She walked over, her heart picking up speed. On the floor, just inside the threshold, sat a small, matte black paper bag. No logo.

She stepped onto the balcony. The night air was salty and cold. Below, the driveway was empty, but in the distance, she saw the taillights of a black car disappearing down the winding road.

She picked up the bag. Inside was a tube of ointment-a custom-compounded formula in a sterile, unmarked container-and a note.

Don't scar. - J

Ayla stared at the handwriting. Sharp, angular strokes. He had been here. He had climbed the balcony? Or maybe he had bribed the staff. With Julian, anything was possible.

She sat on the edge of the bed and applied the ointment. It was cooling, smelling of menthol and arnica. The pain subsided almost instantly.

Hours later, thirst woke her. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

She crept downstairs, the house silent and dark. She didn't turn on the lights. She knew the layout by heart.

As she passed the study, she saw a sliver of light under the door. Voices.

She stopped.

"...just a few more months, Chloe. Be patient." Spencer's voice. Slurred. Drunk.

"I'm tired of waiting, Spencer," Chloe whined. "That woman is pathetic. Why do we even need her?"

"Because of the trust fund clause," Spencer snapped. "My grandfather was a lunatic. The trust doesn't fully vest until I'm thirty-five and 'happily married' for five years. If I divorce her now, I lose forty million dollars."

Ayla pressed a hand over her mouth. Five years. They had been married three. He was using her for a payout.

"And her mother?" Chloe asked. "Is she really sick?"

Spencer laughed. It was a cruel, ugly sound. "She's sick, sure. But the 'experimental treatment' Dr. Evans is giving her? It's a custom cocktail. Mostly metabolic inhibitors and sedatives. Keeps her weak, keeps her dependent. Keeps Ayla compliant."

The world spun. Her knees hit the floor.

Metabolic inhibitors. Sedatives.

He wasn't saving her. He was keeping her sick. He was poisoning her to keep Ayla.

"You're evil," Chloe giggled. "I love it."

"I'll divorce her the day the money hits the account," Spencer said. "Throw her back to the trailer park."

Ayla couldn't breathe. The hallway was closing in. Rage, hot and blinding, surged through her. She wanted to burst in there. She wanted to kill him.

A hand clamped over her mouth.

She screamed against the palm, but the sound was muffled. An arm wrapped around her waist, dragging her backward into the shadows of the alcove under the stairs.

Ayla struggled, kicking out.

"Shh," a voice whispered in her ear. "It's me."

Julian.

She went limp. He held her tight against his chest, his heart beating steadily against her back. They stood there in the dark, hidden, as the study door opened.

Spencer and Chloe stumbled out, giggling, and headed up the stairs to the master bedroom.

Only when their door clicked shut did Julian release her.

Ayla spun around, grabbing his lapels. "Did you hear that? Did you hear what he said?"

"I heard," Julian said. His face was a mask of fury in the shadows.

"He's killing her," Ayla sobbed, the tears finally coming. "He's keeping her sick. I have to... I have to get her out."

"We will," Julian said.

"How are you here?" Ayla asked, suddenly realizing.

"I never left," he said simply. "I was watching the house. I saw the lights go on."

He reached out, wiping a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "Now you know. Your sacrifice wasn't a trade, Ayla. It was a swindle."

"I want to leave," she choked out. "I can't stay here. Not tonight."

"If you leave now, you lose," Julian said. "He wins. He keeps the money, he keeps the power, and he probably hurts your mother to spite you."

"I don't care about the money!"

"I do," Julian said. "I care about you watching him bleed. Metaphorically. And literally."

He gripped her shoulders. "Do you want to run away, or do you want to burn him to the ground?"

Ayla looked up at him. The despair in her chest was hardening into something cold and sharp. A weapon.

"I want him to suffer," she whispered.

Julian smiled. It was terrifying. "Good girl."

"Take me away," she said. "Just for tonight. Please. I can't be under the same roof as him."

Julian didn't hesitate. "Let's go."

The wind whipped Ayla's hair across her face, stinging her eyes, but she didn't care. The top was down on Julian's convertible. They were tearing down the Montauk Highway, the ocean a black void to their right.

Ayla had stopped crying miles ago. Now, she just felt hollow.

Julian pulled the car into a secluded overlook, the gravel crunching under the tires. He killed the engine. The silence of the ocean rushed in to fill the space.

He lit a cigarette, the flame illuminating the sharp planes of his face for a brief second. He didn't offer her one. He just smoked, staring out at the water.

"You need a lawyer," he said.

"I have no money," Ayla replied. "Spencer controls the accounts."

"I have lawyers," Julian said. "Sharks. They eat men like Spencer for breakfast."

"Why?" Ayla turned to look at him. "Why are you doing this? You don't even like me. You think I'm a whore who sold herself."

Julian turned slowly. He exhaled a plume of smoke. "I never said I didn't like you, Ayla. I said I didn't like your choices."

He reached across the console, his hand cupping the back of her neck. His fingers were warm, rough. "And I hate seeing something valuable being treated like trash."

The touch ignited something in Ayla. A desperate need for connection. For proof that she was still alive.

She leaned across the gear shift and kissed him.

It wasn't gentle. It was a collision. She poured all her rage, her fear, her hatred into that kiss. Julian froze for a split second, then he groaned, flicking the cigarette out the window and grabbing her.

He hauled her over the console into his lap. The steering wheel dug into her back, but she didn't care. She needed the pressure. She needed the pain to know she was real.

His hands were everywhere-in her hair, gripping her waist, sliding up her thigh. He kissed her like he wanted to devour her.

"Ayla," he growled against her mouth. "If we do this... you're mine. You understand? No more Spencer. No more playing the victim."

"I'm not a victim," she panted. "Make me forget him."

And he did.

He drove her back just before dawn. The sky was bleeding gray and pink. He stopped the car a quarter mile from the gates, hidden by a line of trees.

"Go back in through the servants' entrance," he instructed. "Act normal. Gather evidence. Record everything."

Ayla nodded, reaching for the door handle.

"Ayla."

She looked back.

He leaned over and bit her lower lip, hard enough to sting. "Remember who you belong to."

Ayla touched her lip, her heart racing. "I remember."

She slipped back into the house unseen. She showered, washing away the sand and the scent of him, though his mark on her lip remained.

At breakfast, Spencer was reading the Wall Street Journal. Chloe was gone.

"Coffee," he ordered without looking up.

Ayla poured him a cup. Her hand didn't shake. She looked at the back of his neck and imagined wrapping a wire around it.

Her phone buzzed on the table.

Spencer glanced at it. "Who is texting you at seven a.m.?"

Ayla picked it up.

Sender: Julian Sterling

Image attached.

It was a photo of her, asleep in his car, her head resting on his shoulder. She looked peaceful.

Caption: Good morning, my girl.

A second text popped up immediately.

Change my name in your contacts to 'Owner'.

Ayla's face flushed hot. She quickly placed the phone face down.

"It's... a spam message," she said. "Car warranty."

Spencer snorted. "Idiot." He turned the page of his newspaper.

Under the table, Ayla unlocked her phone. She didn't change it to 'Owner'. That was too dangerous.

She changed it to Creditor.

Because she owed him. And he was going to help her collect what was owed to her.

She looked at the text again. My girl.

A small, dangerous smile touched her lips.