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.

Sunlight blasted through the curtains, waking Abbey with the subtlety of a slap. She squinted at the clock. 6:00 AM.

She scrambled out of bed. Her clothes from last night were neatly folded on a chair, washed and dried. She put them on quickly. The cheap fabric felt rough against her skin after the silk robe.

She opened the bedroom door. The penthouse was silent.

On the kitchen island, a spread of pastries and fruit sat untouched. A note was propped against a carafe of coffee.

Gone to the office. Alfred will have the driver take you wherever you need to go. - A

Abbey let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. He was gone.

"Good morning, Miss Wynn," Alfred said, appearing with a terrifying stealth. "Shall I call the car?"

"No," Abbey said. "I'll walk."

"It is raining, Miss."

"I like the rain."

Alfred sighed and handed her a massive black umbrella. "Mr. Woodward insisted."

Abbey took the umbrella and fled.

When she got back to her apartment, Sophie was sitting at the kitchen table, eating cereal. She looked pale but alive.

"Abbey!" Sophie jumped up and hugged her. "Oh my god. You saved my life."

"Are you okay?" Abbey asked, squeezing her back.

"Yeah. The doctors said I was drugged. But... Abbey, the hospital bill? It was paid. In full. By 'Anonymous'." Sophie's eyes were wide. "And Miles? Liz said Miles got us in. Miles saved us."

Abbey stiffened. "Miles?"

"Yeah! Miles is the real deal," Liz chimed in, looking hungover. "He told me he had to pull some major strings with the owner to get that guy kicked out for us. He's taking us all to dinner tonight to celebrate you being okay. You have to come. You owe him."

Abbey felt a headache forming behind her eyes. Miles was taking the credit. Of course he was.

"I don't think-"

"Please," Sophie begged. "I want to thank him. And I don't want to go alone."

Abbey sighed. "Fine."

Later that afternoon, Abbey was in the library, trying to focus on Property Law. Her phone pinged.

UNIVERSITY PORTAL ALERT: PAYMENT CONFIRMATION. Your outstanding tuition balance of $12,000 has been paid in full.

Abbey stared at the screen. Not a deposit. A payment. It was from a shell corporation she didn't recognize, but she knew who it was. Armond. He hadn't given her money; he had pulled the strings directly. He hadn't given her a leash; he had tightened the one already around her neck.

She should call the bursar's office. She should be noble and reject it.

But being noble meant dropping out of law school. Being noble meant her father rotted in prison without a lawyer who could actually help him.

She closed the laptop. Her hands shook. I'll pay him back, she promised herself. Every cent.

Miles texted: Carbone. 8 PM. I got a table. Bring the girls.

Abbey typed back: We'll be there.

Across town, in a corner office on the 50th floor of the Woodward Building, Ken placed a sheet of paper on Armond's desk.

"She hasn't rejected the tuition payment, sir."

Armond didn't look up from his documents. "Good."

"And," Ken hesitated. "Mr. Sterling has a reservation at Carbone tonight. Six people. Miss Wynn is included."

Armond's pen stopped moving. A blot of ink bled into the paper.

He looked up. His eyes were glacial.

"Carbone?"

"Yes, sir."

Armond closed the file. He stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the city that looked so small from up here.

"Get me a table," Armond said. "Next to them."

"Sir, Carbone is booked months in-"

"Buy the restaurant if you have to, Ken. Just get me the table."