"Cancel the wire transfer to Lawson Tech," I ordered, staring at the concrete wall of the underground parking garage.

"Miss Vance, the five million dollar capital injection was scheduled to clear in twenty minutes," David, my financial manager, replied through the car's Bluetooth speaker.

"I don't care. Pull the funds. Freeze the joint accounts. Charles Lawson doesn't get another dime of my money."

"Understood. Should I also liquidate the Rosewood apartment asset?"

"Not yet. I need to pack my things first." I killed the engine, gripping the leather steering wheel.

"Will you be returning to the Vance estate tonight?" David asked, his tone strictly professional.

"Yes. Have the staff prepare my old room."

"Of course, Miss Vance. Should I inform the caterers to cancel the reception?"

"There is no reception. He wanted a private registry today. He said he didn't want to show off my poverty to his wealthy colleagues."

"That is highly inappropriate," David noted. "Shall I send a security detail to escort you out of the apartment?"

"No. I'll handle this myself." I hit a button on the dashboard, cutting the connection.

I stepped out of the vehicle and marched toward the elevator. The ride up to the penthouse level felt suffocating. I punched my code into the front door lock and stepped inside.

The Rosewood apartment.

I bought this place three years ago, draining my trust fund allowance to set up a dummy corporation just so Charles could have his dream startup. Five million dollars of my savings, all funneled through shell companies so his fragile male ego wouldn't know his poor orphan girlfriend was actually a billionaire heiress.

My cell phone vibrated in my palm. The caller ID flashed Charles's name.

I swiped the green icon and put it on speaker, tossing the phone onto the kitchen island.

"Are you done throwing your little tantrum?" Charles demanded. His voice echoed off the marble countertops.

"I'm packing my bags, Charles." I walked straight into the master bedroom.

"Don't act crazy, Nat. You made a complete fool of yourself at the registry office. I'm willing to look past it, but you need to come back here right now."

I yanked my gray suitcase from the top shelf of the closet. It slammed onto the hardwood floor.

"Did you hear me?" Charles barked. "I told the clerk to hold our spot. Samantha went home to give us some privacy to sort this out. Come back and sign the papers."

"You want me to sign a legal document after you admitted to screwing my best friend?" I unzipped the suitcase, throwing shirts and jeans inside. "You must be out of your mind."

"It was a mistake!" he yelled, the calm facade finally cracking. "I was stressed about the wedding! Men make mistakes, Natalie. You think you're so perfect? You rely on me for everything. The roof over your head, the food you eat. You can't survive in this city without me."

"I think I'll manage."

"Oh, really? Where are you going to go? Back to the slums? You have zero savings. You work a dead-end retail job. I built Lawson Tech from the ground up! I'm about to close a five-million-dollar investment today. I am giving you a life of luxury, and you're throwing it away because of one stupid slip-up in a club booth?"

I walked over to the oak nightstand next to the bed. "You didn't build anything, Charles. You just got lucky."

"Lucky? I worked eighty-hour weeks! I earned that investment!"

"Check your email. I'm sure your investors have some updates for you."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm done talking to you." I pulled the top drawer open, my fingers searching for my father's silver pocket watch.

"Natalie, do not hang up on me. If you walk out that door, you leave with nothing. I'm cutting off your credit cards. I'm taking the car. You walk out with the clothes on your back."

"Keep it all."

"You think Samantha is a better option for you?" I asked, my voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "She has no job. She lives off the settlement money from my father's death."

"She knows how to treat a man," Charles shot back. "She doesn't nag me about coming home late. She actually appreciates what I provide. You just expect it."

"I expect basic loyalty."

"Loyalty doesn't pay the rent, Nat."

My knuckles brushed against the cold metal of my father's watch. As I pulled it free, my wrist clipped a small velvet box sitting near the back of the drawer. The dark blue ring box.

"You're making the biggest mistake of your life!" Charles screamed through the speaker in the other room. "Samantha means nothing to me! It was just physical!"

The box tumbled onto the floor. It popped open on impact.

"Goodbye, Charles," I called out, not bothering to go back to the kitchen.

"Natalie!"

I tuned him out and bent down to pick up the blue velvet. This was the box I used when I asked Charles to move in with me. I had given him a custom platinum band as a promise.

I stared at the open box in my hand.

"Where is the ring?" I whispered to the empty room.

The platinum band was gone. Instead, a crumpled piece of silver foil rested on the black velvet cushion.

A torn condom wrapper.

My stomach violently turned. The harsh scent of latex and cheap artificial strawberry flavoring drifted up from the square packet.

He kept his trash in the box I gave him. He took off my ring, used this wrapper, and left the evidence right beside where I slept every single night. I stared at the jagged edges of the foil. My mind flashed back to yesterday. He told me he was working late at the office. He told me he had a headache and needed to rest. Instead, he was in a club booth with Samantha, tearing open this exact packet.

I dropped the box as if it had burned my skin. The velvet hit the floorboards, the silver foil spilling out next to the leg of the bed.

A fresh wave of nausea hit me. I pressed a hand to my mouth, gagging. I stumbled back, hitting my spine against the closet door.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The electronic lock on the front door echoed from the hallway.

Charles's voice had stopped yelling from the kitchen speaker. He must have hung up.

"Charles?" I shouted, wiping my hands on my jeans. I stepped out of the bedroom, my jaw tight. "Did you really rush all the way back here just to threaten me in person?"

The heavy front door swung open.

"He's not here, Nat," a familiar, high-pitched voice answered.

Samantha stood in the entryway. She wasn't wearing her pristine pink dress from the registry office anymore. Instead, an oversized white button-down shirt draped loosely over her frame. Charles's shirt. The top three buttons were undone, exposing a collarbone painted with dark, fresh bruises.

"You look ridiculous in his clothes, Samantha," I said, stepping into the living room.

She leaned against the doorframe, adjusting the collar of Charles’s oversized white shirt to make sure I saw the purple marks on her skin.

"Oh, Nat," she sighed, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "I did not want you to find out like this. Charles just insisted I come grab some of his things. He said you'd be too hysterical to pack for him."

"Get out."

"Don't be like that." She took a step forward, her bare feet padding softly on the hardwood floor. "You have to admit, it's poetic. Your father died so I could live. Now, you get to step aside so I can have the man you love. It's almost like your dad’s sacrifice actually meant something for once."

My jaw tightened. "Don't talk about my father."

"Why not?" She tilted her head, a smirk playing on her lips. "He was a rent-a-cop, Natalie. He took a knife for a rich kid because he wanted a payout. Too bad he didn't live long enough to spend it. Now, you’re just as pathetic, clinging to Charles for a crumb of a decent life."

I closed the distance between us in two strides.

I raised my hand and swung.

The crack of my palm against her cheek echoed through the apartment. The force of the blow sent her stumbling sideways. Her shoulder slammed hard into the wooden console table by the entryway, knocking a vase to the floor. It shattered into a dozen jagged pieces.

Samantha crumpled to the ground, clutching her reddened face.

"You hit me!" she shrieked, her fake composure instantly dissolving.

"I’ll do more than hit you if you ever mention my father again," I warned, standing over her.

She scrambled backward, her hands fumbling in the pockets of Charles’s shirt. She pulled out her phone and frantically dialed.

"Charles!" she wailed into the receiver, tears streaming down her face. "Charles, help me! Natalie just attacked me! She’s gone crazy!"

I watched her perform, my expression flat.

"Yes, I’m at the apartment," she sobbed, dragging herself up against the wall. "She slapped me so hard I fell. Please hurry, she’s going to hurt me again!"

She lowered the phone, glaring at me with venomous eyes. "He’s coming right now. You’re done, Natalie. He’s going to throw you out on the street."

"Let him try." I grabbed the collar of the oversized shirt and hauled her to her feet.

"Let go of me!" she screamed, thrashing wildly.

"You wanted to pack his things?" I shoved her toward the front door. "Start with yourself."

Before I could push her out into the hallway, a blinding beam of light sliced through the living room windows. The harsh white glare illuminated the dust motes in the air.

I froze, turning my head toward the floor-to-ceiling glass.

Down below, the screech of tires tore through the quiet evening. A massive, matte-black Maybach tore through the security gate of the apartment complex, the wooden barrier splintering upon impact. The luxury vehicle skidded to a violent halt in front of the building's entrance.

Samantha stopped struggling, her eyes widening as she stared out the window. "What is that?"

I did not answer. My grip on her shirt loosened.

The heavy thud of footsteps pounded down the hallway outside my apartment.

"Nat!" Charles’s voice roared as he burst through the open front door, chest heaving. He rushed straight to Samantha, wrapping his arms around her. "Are you okay? Did she hurt you?"

"She hit me, Charles," Samantha whimpered, burying her face in his chest.

Charles whipped his head toward me, his face twisted in fury. "You psychotic bitch! I told you to wait for me to get back! You think you can just assault her?"

He took a menacing step toward me, raising his hand.

Downstairs, a car door slammed shut. The sound echoed up the stairwell, sharp and heavy.

Heavy boots crunched over the shattered glass of the lobby doors. The rhythmic, heavy steps moved up the stairs, bypassing the elevator entirely.

Charles ignored the noise, stepping closer to me. "I’m going to make you regret this, Natalie. You’re leaving this apartment right now, with nothing."

"Try it," a deep, icy voice commanded from the doorway.

Charles stopped dead in his tracks.

A man stepped into the apartment. He wore a tailored charcoal suit, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. The harsh hallway light cast long shadows over his sharp jawline and piercing gray eyes.

Alexander Sterling.

The head of the Sterling Corporation. The man who had silently funded my father’s funeral, paid for my college tuition, and watched over me from the shadows for the past ten years.

Charles puffed out his chest, trying to regain his bravado. "Who the hell are you? Get out of my apartment before I call the cops."

Alexander didn't blink. He walked slowly across the shattered remains of the vase, his polished dress shoes crunching over the ceramic shards.

He stopped two feet away from Charles.

Without a single word, Alexander raised his right hand. The cold, black steel of a Glock 19 pressed directly against the center of Charles’s forehead.

Alexander thrusts the gun barrel forward, the cold steel digging violently into the skin between Charles's eyebrows. The metallic click of the safety disengaging cuts through the room like a whip.

Charles's knees buckle. His arrogant posture collapses instantly. He throws both hands high into the air, his fingers trembling wildly.

"Whoa, hey, let's calm down," Charles stammers. A thick bead of sweat rolls down his temple. "Don't shoot. Please."

Samantha presses her back flat against the wall. She covers her mouth with both hands, muffling a high-pitched squeal.

"Alexander," I state, stepping over the shattered ceramic vase on the floor.

He does not lower the weapon. His gray eyes remain locked on Charles. "He raised a hand to you, Natalie."

"He isn't worth the bullet," I reply, my voice steady. "Put it away."

Alexander keeps the Glock pinned to Charles's skull for three agonizing seconds. Then, he slides the weapon back into his shoulder holster.

Charles exhales a loud, ragged gasp, dropping his arms.

Before Charles can speak, Alexander reaches into his tailored jacket. He pulls out a thick manila folder and extends it toward me.

"Review these," Alexander commands.

I take the heavy file. I flip it open right on the kitchen island. Inside, crisp legal documents bear the official seals of the city registry. The deed to the Rosewood apartment sits on top. Beneath it lies the corporate charter for Lawson Tech.

"What is that?" Charles demands, rubbing his forehead where the gun left a harsh red ring.

"Proof," I answer, scanning the bold print. "The dummy corporation that funded your startup is registered entirely in my name. Every patent you filed, every server you bought, every desk in your office belongs to my holding firm."

Charles steps forward, his face twisting in intense denial. "That's a lie! Lawson Tech is mine! I signed the lease! I hired the developers!"

"With my money," I shoot back. "Five million dollars, Charles. Funneled through three different shell accounts so your fragile ego wouldn't realize your poor girlfriend actually owned you."

Charles lunges for the folder. "Give me that!"

Alexander steps neatly into his path. He strikes Charles in the chest with the flat of his palm. The blow sends Charles stumbling backward into the couch.

"Read it from there," Alexander instructs.

I hold up the corporate charter so he can see the bold text. "Your signature is on the management agreement, Charles. Not the ownership deed. You are an employee of my holding firm. An employee I just terminated."

Samantha lowers her hands from her face. She stares at Alexander, her eyes raking over his custom suit and the expensive watch on his wrist. She adjusts the collar of Charles's shirt, intentionally letting it slip further off her shoulder to expose her collarbone.

"Sir," Samantha purrs, stepping toward him. "You don't understand. Natalie is unstable. She just attacked me. You shouldn't be helping her."

Alexander doesn't even blink. "Take another step toward me, and I will have my men throw you off the balcony instead of your luggage."

Samantha freezes, the fake sweetness draining entirely from her face.

"Sign the final page," Alexander instructs, ignoring the two of them completely. He produces a sleek silver fountain pen and sets it on the marble counter.

I flip to the back of the stack. A formal eviction notice and an immediate asset seizure mandate stare back at me.

I press the paper flat and drag the pen across the dotted line, leaving my signature in bold black ink.

"Done," I declare, handing the folder back to Alexander.

Alexander raises his right hand and snaps his fingers.

Heavy boots thunder down the hallway. Four massive men in matching black suits storm through the open front door, filling the entryway.

"Clear out their belongings," Alexander orders, gesturing vaguely around the room. "Through the window."

"Yes, Mr. Sterling," the lead guard barks.

The men fan out. One guard grabs Samantha's designer handbag from the console table. He marches straight to the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, slides them open, and hurls the purse into the night air.

"Are you insane?" Samantha shrieks, lunging forward. "My car keys are in there!"

Another guard ignores her, marching straight into the master bedroom. He emerges seconds later carrying an armful of Charles's custom Italian suits, still on their wooden hangers. He tosses the entire bundle off the balcony.

"Stop!" Charles roars. He charges at the guard. "Those cost three thousand dollars each!"

The guard plants a massive hand on Charles's chest and shoves him backward. Charles hits the hardwood floor hard, sliding into the kitchen island.

The guards are efficient. One returns from the bedroom with Charles's prized golf clubs. He pulls out a titanium driver, snaps it over his knee, and tosses the pieces into the night.

"My clubs!" Charles screams, his voice cracking into a high pitch.

Another guard carries a cardboard box filled with Samantha's makeup, jewelry, and the cheap shoes she left by the door. He dumps the entire box over the railing.

"My things!" Samantha wails, dropping to her knees. "Charles, do something!"

"I'm calling the police!" Charles yells, pulling his phone from his pocket.

"Call them," I challenge, walking toward him. "Tell them you're trespassing on my property. Tell them you tried to assault the owner."

"You think you're so smart?" Charles snarls, dialing furiously. "I know Captain Briggs at your precinct. I donated ten grand to the policeman's ball last month. You're just a bottom-feeder, Natalie! When I tell Briggs about this, he'll strip your badge today. I'll make sure you never work at that police station again!"

I cross my arms, watching his pathetic display.

"You hear me?" Charles yells, pointing a trembling finger at my face. "You'll be unemployable in this city! You'll be begging me for a job when they fire you!"

"Drag them out," Alexander commands quietly.

Two guards grab Charles by the arms, lifting him entirely off his feet. He kicks and thrashes, his dress shoes scraping against the floorboards.

"You're dead, Natalie!" Charles bellows as they haul him toward the door. "You hear me? You are nothing!"

Another guard grabs Samantha by the collar of the oversized white shirt.

"Don't touch me!" she cries, stumbling over her bare feet as the guard forces her into the hallway.

The heavy oak door slams shut, cutting off their frantic yelling.

Silence falls over the ruined living room. The cold night wind blows in through the open balcony doors, rustling the remaining papers on the kitchen counter.

I stare at the shattered vase on the floor, the remnants of the life I spent three years building.

Alexander turns to face me. His gray eyes lock onto mine, stripping away the chaos of the last ten minutes.

He reaches into his coat pocket. His fingers produce a heavy silver key fob adorned with the Maybach emblem.

He holds it out between us, the metal gleaming under the harsh overhead lights.

"Are you going to stay here and be an ordinary police officer getting bullied," Alexander asks, his tone devoid of any sympathy, "or get in my car and take back your Vance Group?"