The air in the Diamond Lounge smelled of cedarwood and aged tobacco. It was a masculine, oppressive scent that instantly triggered a memory in Abbey's hindbrain-Armond's cologne.

Armond didn't stand up. He remained sprawled on the leather, flanked by three other men in suits who were murmuring about market shares. In the far corner, near the window, Abbey saw Sophie. She was sitting on a stool, looking dazed, while a balding man with a red face leaned uncomfortably close to her, whispering in her ear.

Abbey started to lunge toward Sophie, but Miles clamped a hand on her shoulder.

"Easy," Miles whispered. "We have to pay respects first."

He steered her toward Armond. Abbey felt like a doll being dragged by a toddler.

"Armond," Miles said, extending his hand with a practiced, politician's smile. "Thanks for the pass. Appreciate it."

Armond didn't take the hand. He let Miles's hand hang in the air for three agonizing seconds before he finally, lazily, shifted his gaze from Abbey to Miles.

"Sterling," Armond said. His voice was a low baritone that vibrated in Abbey's chest. "You're wet."

"Ah, yeah, the rain," Miles laughed nervously, dropping his hand. He pulled Abbey closer, his fingers digging into her hip through the silk jacket. "This is Abbey. She's... with me."

Armond's eyes snapped back to Abbey. He looked at Miles's hand on her hip. His expression didn't change, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"With you," Armond repeated. The words sounded like he was tasting something rotten. "Your taste is... unique."

"She's special," Miles beamed, oblivious to the razor blades in Armond's tone.

"Indeed," Armond said softly. He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving Abbey's face. "Very special."

Abbey couldn't breathe. She pulled away from Miles. "I need to get Sophie."

She walked toward the corner. The balding man had his hand on Sophie's knee now.

"Hey!" Abbey said, her voice shaking but loud. "Get away from her."

The man looked up, annoyed. "Excuse me? We're having a conversation."

"She's drunk," Abbey snapped. She grabbed Sophie's arm. "Sophie, stand up."

"Abbey?" Sophie blinked, her eyes unfocused. "Is that you?"

"Who invited the wet dog?" the man sneered, standing up. He blocked Abbey's path. "This girl is on my tab. She goes when I say she goes."

"She's leaving," Miles said, coming up behind Abbey. "She's a friend of mine."

The man squinted at Miles. "Sterling? The kid? Go run to daddy. The adults are playing."

Miles flushed red. He opened his mouth to retort, but he looked unsure, weak.

Abbey saw the man reach for Sophie again. Pure, white-hot rage flared in her chest. She grabbed a heavy crystal ice bucket from the table.

"Touch her again," Abbey warned, lifting the bucket, "and I will break this over your head."

The man laughed. "You wouldn't da-"

CRASH.

The sound of shattering glass exploded through the room. But it wasn't the ice bucket.

Everyone froze.

Armond had thrown his whiskey glass against the wall. The shards glittered on the carpet.

He stood up. He unfolded his height slowly, towering over everyone in the room. He adjusted his cuffs, his face a mask of bored lethargy, but his eyes were burning.

He walked toward them. The crowd parted instantly. The balding man took a step back, his arrogance evaporating.

Armond stopped in front of the man. He didn't shout. He didn't posture. He just looked down at him.

"Get out," Armond said.

"Mr. Woodward, I was just-"

"I said get out," Armond interrupted. "And take your trash with you. If I see you in one of my properties again, I'll have security break your legs before they ban you."

The man turned pale. He grabbed his jacket and scrambled toward the elevator without a backward glance.

Armond turned to Abbey.

For a moment, she thought he was going to yell at her. Instead, he reached out and plucked the ice bucket from her hands. He set it down on the table with a gentle clink.

"Violence, Rose?" he murmured, using the name only he knew, a private joke from a Parisian summer about the blush on her cheeks. "That's new."

"Don't call me that," Abbey whispered.

"Armond, man, thanks," Miles interjected, stepping between them again. "I owe you one."

Armond ignored Miles completely. He snapped his fingers. Two massive bodyguards materialized from the shadows.

"Take Miss..." He gestured to Sophie. "Take her to Lenox Hill. Private room. Make sure she's hydrated and safe."

"I'll take her," Abbey said.

"No," Armond said. He took a step closer to her, invading her personal space. He smelled of whiskey and power. "You're staying."

"I'm leaving with Miles," Abbey said, though her voice lacked conviction.

Armond leaned down. His lips brushed her ear. The intimacy of the gesture made her knees buckle.

"Do you really want to owe him for tonight?" Armond whispered. "Or would you rather owe me?"

Abbey looked at Miles, who was checking his reflection in the window. Then she looked at Armond.

It wasn't a choice. It was a trap.

The bodyguards had already lifted Sophie, carrying her toward the service elevator with professional efficiency. Abbey took a step to follow, but Armond moved, blocking her path with his body.

"Abbey!" Miles called out, jogging over. "My car is right out front. I'll follow the ambulance."

Armond turned to Miles. He smoothed the lapel of his jacket. "You've been drinking, Sterling."

"I'm fine to drive," Miles bristled. "I had two drinks."

"And in this rain, in a Ferrari?" Armond shook his head, looking at Miles like a disappointed parent. "She needs safety, not a death wish."

Ken stepped forward, holding a sleek black folio. "Mr. Sterling, the floor manager needs you to sign for the damages. The glass Mr. Woodward broke... and the table spilled by your altercation."

"What? Armond broke the glass!" Miles protested.

"Technically, it was your guest who incited the incident," Ken said smoothly. "If you could just step this way..."

Miles looked at Abbey, then at the bill Ken was presenting. He was trapped by social protocol. "Abbey, wait here. I'll be two seconds."

He turned to argue with Ken.

Armond didn't wait. He gripped Abbey's elbow. His fingers were strong, digging into the tender flesh of her arm.

"Walk," he commanded.

He steered her away from the main exit, toward a panel in the wall that slid open to reveal a private elevator. He shoved her inside and hit the button for the garage.

The doors slid shut, cutting off the music, the noise, and Miles.

The silence in the small metal box was deafening. Abbey pulled her arm away, rubbing the spot where he had held her.

"I'm not going with you," she said, backing into the corner.

Armond watched the numbers count down. "Where are you going to go? Back to that rat-hole apartment in the East Village? The one with the broken lock on the front door?"

Abbey's breath hitched. "How do you know about the lock?"

"I know everything, Rose. I know you're eating ramen noodles five nights a week. I know your father's legal fees are drowning you." He turned to look at her. His eyes were tired. "I know you're scared."

"I'm not scared of you," she lied.

"You should be."

The elevator dinged. The doors opened to a private garage bay. The black Escalade was waiting, engine running.

"Get in," Armond said.

"No."

Armond sighed. He stepped close to her, crowding her against the elevator wall. He placed a hand on either side of her head, boxing her in.

"Don't make me carry you," he said softly. "I will do it. And I will enjoy it."

Abbey looked into his eyes. He wasn't bluffing. She ducked under his arm and marched to the car. She climbed into the back seat, slamming the door.

Armond got in the other side. He pressed a button, and the partition between them and the driver slid up, sealing them in a cocoon of leather and silence.

The car glided out of the garage and into the rainy night.

Abbey pressed herself against the door, as far away from him as possible. Armond loosened his tie. He looked at her profile, illuminated by the passing streetlights.

"Why?" he asked.

It was the question that had been hanging between them for five years.

Abbey stared out the window. "It was a summer fling, Armond. It ended."

"A fling?" Armond laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. "You left a note on the pillow. You changed your number. You vanished. That's not how a fling ends. That's how a witness protection program starts."

"I found out who you were," Abbey said. "I found out you weren't Armond Chevalier, the art student. You were Armond Woodward. We were... incompatible."

"So you ran because I was rich?"

"I ran because you lied!" She turned to face him, anger flaring. "And because I knew... I knew I couldn't be what you needed."

"And what did I need?"

"Someone who fits in that club upstairs," she spat. "Someone who doesn't have a felon for a father."

Armond reached out. He grabbed her chin, his thumb pressing against her jaw, forcing her to look at him. His touch was electric, sending a jolt straight to her core.

"You think I care about your father?" he hissed. "I cared about you. I've known where you were for years, Rose." Abbey's blood ran cold. "Then why..." "I was waiting," he cut her off, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. "For you to hit bottom. For you to be ready to admit you need me."

"My name is Abbey."

"Your name is whatever I say it is when we're alone."

He let go of her face. He sat back, running a hand through his hair. The vulnerability was gone, replaced by the mask of the CEO.

"We're going to my place. Sophie is safe. Tomorrow, we'll discuss your... situation."

"I'm not staying with you."

The car turned onto Park Avenue. It slowed in front of 432 Park, the needle-thin skyscraper that dominated the skyline.

"You are," Armond said. "Because I've bought your debt, Abbey."

Abbey froze. "What?"

"Your student loans. Your father's legal liens. I bought the debt this morning." He looked at her, his expression unreadable. "You don't owe the bank anymore. You owe me."

The elevator opened directly into the penthouse. The entire floor was one massive room, walled in glass. The lights of Manhattan sprawled out below them like a carpet of diamonds, dizzying and cold.

Abbey stood on the marble entryway, afraid to step onto the pristine white rug with her wet sneakers.

Armond walked in like he owned the sky. He stripped off his jacket and tossed it to a gray-haired man who appeared from nowhere.

"Alfred, put Miss Wynn in the East Guest Room," Armond said, unbuttoning his cuffs. "Get her some dry clothes. Burn what she's wearing."

"I'm keeping my clothes," Abbey said, crossing her arms.

Armond walked to the wet bar. He poured a finger of amber liquid. "Drink?"

"I want to sleep."

"You used to drink red wine by the bottle," Armond said, his back to her. "On the roof. Remember?"

"That girl is dead," Abbey said. "I'm Abbey Wynn now. I'm a broke law student who just got kidnapped."

Armond turned. He took a sip of his drink, watching her over the rim. "Kidnapped is a strong word. I prefer... repossessed."

"You can't just buy people's debt, Armond. That's... that's illegal. Or unethical."

"It's perfectly legal. It's a distressed asset purchase." He set the glass down. He walked toward her. "And you are very distressed."

He reached out, his hand hovering near her cheek. Abbey flinched, turning her face away.

Armond's hand froze. He curled his fingers into a fist and dropped his hand to his side.

"The room is to the left," he said, his voice tight. "Don't try to leave. The elevator requires a biometric scan. You're stuck here."

Abbey turned and fled down the hallway. She found the room-it was bigger than her entire apartment. She slammed the door and locked it.

She leaned against the wood, sliding down to the floor. She was shaking.

He bought my debt.

She was trapped.

She stripped off her wet clothes and went into the bathroom. The shower was a waterfall of hot water. She stood under it for twenty minutes, scrubbing her skin until it was red, trying to wash off the feeling of his thumb on her jaw.

When she stepped out, wrapped in a plush robe she found hanging on a hook, she saw a tray on the bedside table.

A glass of warm milk. A tube of arnica cream.

She touched the bruise on her arm where she had hit the velvet rope earlier that night. She hadn't even noticed it was turning purple.

He had noticed.

She sat on the edge of the king-sized bed. The sheets smelled of lavender. She rubbed the cream on her arm. The milk was warm and sweet.

It was a trap. It had to be. He was fattening her up before the slaughter.

But as she lay down, burying her face in the pillow, she couldn't help but remember Paris. The way he used to bring her tea when she was studying. The way he wasn't a monster then.

Was he a monster now? Or was he just a man who had been hurt?

She couldn't sleep. The silence of the penthouse was unnatural.

At 3 AM, thirst drove her out of the room. She crept down the hallway, her bare feet silent on the marble.

The living room was dark. But by the floor-to-ceiling window, she saw a silhouette.

Armond.

He was standing perfectly still, staring out at the city. The glowing tip of a cigarette moved in the dark. He exhaled a plume of smoke that ghosted against the glass.

He looked incredibly lonely.

He wasn't the Titan of Industry. He was just a man in a glass cage, looking at a world he owned but couldn't touch.

Abbey watched him for a long moment. She wanted to go to him. She wanted to ask him why he bought her debt. But fear held her back.

She turned and slipped back into her room, locking the door again. But this time, the lock felt less like it was keeping him out, and more like it was keeping her from doing something stupid.