The taxi pulled up to a dark alley in Tribeca. There was no sign, just a heavy steel door set into a brick wall covered in graffiti.

Calleigh paid the driver with cash she kept clipped inside her bra. She stepped out, the cool night air biting through her thin dress.

She walked to the door and knocked on the metal peephole. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

Morse code for 'G'. Ghost.

A slit in the door slid open. Eyes widened on the other side. The bolts slammed back, and the heavy door swung inward.

Nate Sterling stood there, looking out of place in a velvet tuxedo jacket. He was the owner of The Vault, the most exclusive speakeasy in the city, and one of the few people who knew Calleigh could speak.

Ghost? Nate whispered, scanning the alley behind her. Jesus, look at you. You're shaking.

Calleigh pushed past him, stumbling into the dim, smoky interior of the club. The air was thick with jazz and the scent of expensive cigars. She made a beeline for the bar.

She slammed her hand on the mahogany counter and held up one finger. Then she pointed to the top shelf.

Nate waved away the bartender. He grabbed a bottle of 30-year-old single malt scotch and poured a generous amount into a crystal tumbler.

Calleigh grabbed the glass with both hands. She downed it in one long swallow. The liquid burned all the way down, a fire to fight the ice in her veins. She slammed the glass down.

Another.

Nate poured. Slow down, Cal. What happened?

Calleigh pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. She shoved it toward him.

Gerri is forcing surrogacy. Aria is the vessel. They have a fake psych eval to commit me.

Nate read the screen, his jaw tightening. That old witch. Do you want me to wipe the clinic's servers? I can have their records encrypted by morning.

Calleigh shook her head. She took the second drink, slower this time, but her hands were still trembling. It wouldn't matter. Gerri would just find another doctor.

She needed to numb the panic. The feeling of the walls closing in.

By the third drink, the edges of her vision began to soften. The jazz music, usually soothing, felt loud and discordant. A saxophone wailed, sounding like a scream.

Calleigh reached up to her neck. The pearl necklace she wore-a gift from Heinrich on their first anniversary-felt like a noose. It was heavy, choking her.

She fumbled with the clasp, her coordination failing. With a sudden jerk, she ripped it off. The clasp snapped.

She dangled the pearls over her empty glass.

Don't, Nate warned.

She dropped it. The necklace coiled into the bottom of the tumbler with a clink.

She stared at it. That was her life. Pretty, expensive, and drowning.

She began to sway. The music had a rhythm she couldn't ignore. She pushed off the bar stool, her movements loose and uncoordinated. She spun in a slow circle, her arms out.

The club was filled with the city's elite. Heads began to turn. Whispers started.

Is that...? No, it can't be.

Look at her. She's wasted.

A man at a nearby table raised his phone, the camera lens pointed squarely at her.

Nate saw it. He signaled to a massive bouncer in the corner. The bouncer moved instantly, intercepting the man and snatching the phone from his hand.

Nate grabbed Calleigh's arm. Cal, stop. You need to go home. This isn't safe.

Calleigh pulled away, stumbling. She laughed, a soundless, open-mouthed expression of hysteria. Tears streamed down her face, ruining her makeup.

She was falling apart. The perfect puppet strings had been cut, and she was collapsing in a heap.

Nate cursed under his breath. He couldn't handle this. If the press got hold of her like this, she was done. Gerri would win.

He pulled out his phone and dialed the one number he swore he would never use.

It rang once.

Speak. The voice on the other end was deep, baritone, and terrifyingly calm.

It's Nate. At The Vault.

I know who you are. Why are you calling me?

Your 'asset' is here, Nate said, watching Calleigh try to pour herself another drink directly from the bottle. And she's about to self-destruct. Come get her, or I'm putting her in a cab to the police station.

There was a silence on the line so cold it could freeze water.

Lock the doors, Heinrich Lloyd said. I'm ten minutes away.

The line went dead.

Nate sighed and walked back to Calleigh. He gently took the bottle from her hand.

He's coming, Nate said softly.

Calleigh blinked up at him, her eyes glassy. Who?

The Ice King.

Calleigh flinched. She grabbed Nate's lapel, her fingers digging into the velvet. Take me... anywhere...

I can't, Cal. Nate looked sad. I can't protect you from him.

Ten minutes later, the sound of tires screeching in the alley penetrated the heavy walls.

The steel door banged open.

The atmosphere in the club shifted instantly. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

Heinrich Lloyd stood in the doorway. He was wearing a black trench coat over a tuxedo, his hair slightly windblown. He looked like a dark god of vengeance.

He scanned the room, ignoring the stunned patrons. His eyes locked onto Calleigh, who was slumped over the bar, her head resting on her arms.

He started walking. The crowd parted like the Red Sea.

Heinrich moved through the VIP section with the unstoppable momentum of a glacier. He didn't look at Nate. He didn't look at the bouncers. His entire existence was focused on the woman slumped against the bar.

He stopped behind her. He reached out, his large hand tangling into the hair at the nape of her neck. He pulled gently but firmly, forcing her head up.

Look at me.

Calleigh's eyes fluttered open. She struggled to focus. The face hovering above her was familiar-sharp jawline, eyes the color of the North Atlantic, a mouth that rarely smiled.

Fear spiked through the alcohol haze. She tried to pull away, sliding off the stool.

Heinrich's other arm shot out, catching her around the waist before she hit the floor. He hauled her against his chest. She smelled like expensive scotch and despair.

How much? Heinrich asked, his voice a low rumble against her ear.

Enough to make her forget she belongs to you, Nate said, stepping forward. Take her out the back.

Heinrich finally looked at Nate. His gaze was dismissive. Put it on my tab.

He bent down and swept Calleigh up into his arms. She was light, too light. She felt fragile, like a bird with hollow bones.

Calleigh panicked. She started to struggle, her fists hitting his chest with weak, uncoordinated thuds. She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out-the habit of silence was too ingrained, even in drunkenness.

Stop moving, Heinrich ordered. Unless you want an audience.

He turned and marched toward the exit. His security detail formed a wedge around him, clearing the path.

They reached the heavy steel door. One of the guards pushed it open.

The night exploded.

Flashes of white light blinded them. The alley, which should have been empty, was swarming with paparazzi. Someone had tipped them off.

Mr. Lloyd! Who is she?

Is that your wife?

Look this way!

The noise was deafening. Shouts, camera shutters clicking like a thousand mechanical insects.

Calleigh went rigid. The flashing lights triggered a memory-headlights, screeching tires, the smell of burning metal. Her breath hitched, turning into a hyperventilating wheeze.

Heinrich felt her seize up. Without breaking stride, he pulled the lapel of his trench coat open and shoved her face into his shirt. His hand came up to cup the back of her head, shielding her completely.

Close your eyes, he commanded, his voice surprisingly close, vibrating through his chest into hers. Breathe.

It was an order, but it felt... protective.

The bodyguards shoved the photographers back, creating a narrow corridor to the waiting car.

Back off! Move!

Heinrich ducked into the backseat of the Maybach, shielding Calleigh with his body until the door slammed shut.

Go, he barked at the driver.

The car lurched forward, tires spinning on the pavement as it accelerated away from the mob.

Inside the car, the silence was sudden and heavy. Heinrich hit the button to raise the privacy shades, plunging them into semi-darkness.

He didn't let go of her immediately. Calleigh was still shaking, her face pressed against the crisp cotton of his shirt. He could feel her tears soaking through the fabric.

Heinrich stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched. He reached up and loosened his tie, ripping it off and throwing it onto the seat.

He pulled his phone out and dialed his PR chief.

Kill the photos, he said. I don't care how much it costs. If you can't kill them, blur her face. No one identifies her. Do you understand?

He hung up and looked down at the woman in his arms.

She had stopped struggling. She was limp now, either passed out or pretending to be.

Explain, he said to the top of her head.

Calleigh didn't move. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, feigning unconsciousness. She couldn't face him. Not now.

Heinrich looked at her messy hair, the tear tracks on her cheek that were visible when she shifted slightly. He raised his hand, hovering it over her shoulder as if to comfort her.

Then he curled his fingers into a fist and pulled his hand away. He rubbed his temple, a gesture of profound exhaustion.

He shifted her weight, settling her more comfortably against him, but his body remained rigid. He was a statue holding a storm.

The car didn't go to the Hamptons. It descended into the underground garage of a sleek glass tower in Tribeca. Heinrich's private sanctuary.

He carried her to the elevator, bypassing the doorman. Up to the penthouse.

Inside, the apartment was a reflection of the man: cold, minimalist, expensive. Lots of steel, glass, and black leather.

He walked into the living room and dropped her onto the sprawling Italian leather sofa. It wasn't gentle, but it wasn't violent. It was simply depositing a burden.

The impact jarred Calleigh awake. She blinked, disoriented by the harsh recessed lighting.

She sat up, pushing her hair out of her face. Her head pounded.

Heinrich stood over her, removing his cufflinks. He tossed them onto a glass side table. Clink. Clink.

Gerri pushed you, didn't she?

It wasn't a question. He knew his mother.

Calleigh looked at him, her eyes red-rimmed. She nodded slowly.

Heinrich let out a short, humorless laugh. So you ran to a bar? That was your strategy? Getting drunk in a basement with a bartender who looks like a magician?

He took off his jacket, throwing it over a chair. He unbuttoned his cuffs and began to roll up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle. He took a step toward her.

Calleigh shrank back, scooting until her spine hit the back of the sofa.

Heinrich placed one knee on the cushion next to her thigh. He leaned in, trapping her. His scent-sandalwood and cold rain-filled her nose.

Did you sign? he asked. His voice was quiet, dangerous.

Calleigh shook her head.

Heinrich stared at her for a long moment, searching her face for a lie.

Good, he said. That was the only correct decision.

Calleigh blinked in surprise. She had expected him to be furious that she defied the family matriarch.

Heinrich reached out, his fingers gripping her chin, forcing her to look at him.

I don't like people touching my things, he said, his thumb brushing her lower lip. Even my mother. Especially my mother.

It wasn't love. It was possession. He was a dragon guarding his hoard, and she was just a coin in the pile. But in that moment, his possessiveness felt like a shield.

The alcohol in Calleigh's blood made her bold. Or maybe it was the adrenaline. She reached up, her hand trembling, and grabbed the front of his shirt. She pulled him closer.

It was a desperate move. A distraction. If he was kissing her, he couldn't ask questions. He couldn't ask why she was at The Vault.

Heinrich's pupils dilated. He didn't hesitate.

He crashed his mouth onto hers. It wasn't a kiss; it was a conquest. He tasted of mint and suppressed anger.

Calleigh didn't fight. She opened to him, letting him take what he wanted. It was the only currency she had left to pay for her safety.

Clothes were discarded in a heap on the floor. The encounter was frantic, rough. Heinrich moved with a hunger that suggested he had been starving, or perhaps just needing to assert control over the one thing in his life that was spiraling.

Calleigh clung to his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. For a few minutes, she wasn't the mute victim. She was just a body, feeling something other than fear.

Afterward, he carried her to the shower. He washed her with methodical efficiency, the warm water sluicing away the smell of the bar. He didn't speak.

He wrapped her in a towel and put her in his bed. The sheets were charcoal grey and smelled like him.

Calleigh lay on her side, watching him. Heinrich stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, wearing a silk robe. He was smoking a cigarette, looking out at the city lights.

He looked lonely. And terrifying.

Calleigh touched her neck. Her fingers brushed bare skin.

The necklace.

The recorder.

It was gone. She had dropped it in the glass at the bar.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the post-coital haze. That recorder had weeks of audio on it. If Nate didn't find it... if someone else did...

She bit the tip of her tongue, hard. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. She needed the pain to stay awake. She couldn't sleep. What if she talked in her sleep? What if she murmured a code, or a name?

She lay there in the dark, watching the smoke curl from Heinrich's silhouette, terrified to close her eyes.