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.

The biological clock in Heinrich's brain woke him at 6:00 AM sharp. He didn't need an alarm.

He opened his eyes and turned his head. Calleigh was asleep beside him, her dark hair fanned out over his grey pillowcase. She looked younger in her sleep, less guarded.

He watched her for a moment, a frown creasing his forehead. Then he sat up and swung his legs out of bed.

The moment the mattress shifted, Calleigh's eyes snapped open. She didn't move a muscle, but her breathing changed. She was awake.

Heinrich walked into the bathroom. The shower turned on.

Calleigh bolted upright. She scanned the room. Her dress from last night was a ruined heap on the floor. She couldn't wear that.

She ran to his closet. It was a row of identical suits and shirts. She grabbed a white dress shirt and pulled it on. It hung to her mid-thighs, the sleeves swallowing her hands. She rolled them up hastily.

She walked out into the living area. Breakfast had been delivered-a spread of fruits, pastries, and coffee on the dining table.

Heinrich emerged from the bedroom, fully dressed in a navy three-piece suit. His hair was wet, combed back perfectly. The savage lover from the night before was gone, replaced by the CEO.

He sat at the head of the table and picked up his iPad. He began to read, scrolling with a precise finger.

Calleigh stood by the table, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

Sit, Heinrich said without looking up. Eat.

Calleigh sat. She picked up a fork and pushed a piece of melon around her plate.

I'll handle Gerri, Heinrich said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. You don't need to worry about the clinic.

Calleigh looked up, surprised. She opened her mouth, then closed it. She nodded.

However, Heinrich continued, his eyes finally lifting to meet hers. They were cold. That doesn't mean you can go running to dive bars and act like a common drunk.

He reached into his jacket pocket and slid a black credit card across the table. It spun and stopped in front of her plate.

Buy some decent clothes. Stop embarrassing me.

Calleigh stared at the card. The Centurion card. Unlimited limit.

It felt like payment. Like he was leaving money on the dresser.

She didn't touch it. She went back to stabbing her melon.

Heinrich's jaw tightened. He didn't like being ignored.

The doorbell rang.

Enter, Heinrich called out.

Xavier Tate, Heinrich's personal assistant, walked in. He was carrying several garment bags and a tablet.

Good morning, sir. Xavier placed the bags on the sofa. Clothes for Mrs. Holman. And the morning briefing.

He handed the tablet to Heinrich.

The PR team has scrubbed 90% of the images from last night, Xavier reported, keeping his eyes strictly on his boss. The narrative is that you were assisting a friend who had a medical episode. No names mentioned.

Heinrich swiped through the report. Make it 100%. If I see one pixel of her face on Twitter, someone gets fired.

Calleigh let out a silent breath.

Heinrich stood up, buttoning his jacket. I'm going to the office. Xavier will drive you to... that little hobby of yours.

He meant her job. Her job as a data analyst at a mid-tier media company. He thought it was cute that she wanted to work. He had no idea it was her command center.

He walked around the table and stopped behind her chair. He placed a hand on the back of her neck, his thumb resting on her pulse point.

Remember who you are, he whispered. Mrs. Lloyd.

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. It was a brand. A claim of ownership.

Then he walked out. The door clicked shut.

Calleigh slumped in her chair, the tension leaving her body in a rush.

Xavier cleared his throat. Ms. Holman?

Calleigh looked up.

Xavier held out a small velvet pouch. Mr. Sterling from The Vault sent this over by courier this morning. He said you left it.

Calleigh stood up so fast her chair tipped over. She snatched the pouch from Xavier's hand.

She opened it. The pearls spilled out.

She squeezed them in her fist, feeling the hard, round shapes. The recorder was still nestled inside the tiny, repaired clasp.

She looked at Xavier. He was smiling politely, his face blank.

Thank you, she signed.

She clutched the necklace to her chest. She had her life back.