"Time is up," the butler said, appearing in the doorway like a ghost.

Ashton closed the book immediately. She stood up, smoothing her jeans. "Thank you."

She looked at Isadore. He didn't look up from his laptop. "Goodbye, Mr. Grimes."

He didn't respond.

Ashton walked out of the study and into the foyer. Through the glass panels of the front door, she could see the world had turned into a washing machine. Rain fell in sheets, horizontal and violent.

"Shall I call a car for you, Miss?" the butler asked.

"No need," Ashton lied smoothly. "My Uber is two minutes away."

She pushed open the heavy front door and stepped out. The wind hit her instantly, soaking her hoodie in seconds. She walked down the steps and stood near the gate, just out of the direct line of sight of the house, but perfectly framed by the security camera.

She pulled out her phone. She dialed a dead number, held it to her ear, and then pulled it away, staring at the screen with feigned panic.

A black sedan-Sloan's rental-pulled up to the gate, idling ominously. It sat there for a moment, headlights cutting through the rain, looking for all the world like a stalker lying in wait.

Inside the study, a small alert chimed on Isadore's screen. Perimeter Alert: Loitering Vehicle.

Isadore clicked the feed. He saw the black car. Then he switched cameras and saw the girl. Ashton was hugging herself, shaking violently, water streaming down her face. She looked terrified, glancing between her phone and the car outside.

Isadore's jaw tightened. He didn't care about her. But he refused to have a kidnapping-or worse-happen on his doorstep. The paperwork alone would be a nightmare.

He hit the intercom button. "Let her back in. Get rid of that car."

The gates opened. Security personnel swarmed the black sedan, which peeled away into the night.

Moments later, Ashton stood in the foyer again. She was dripping wet. Her wet clothes clung to her skin, outlining her frame. She was shivering, her teeth chattering audibly.

Isadore descended the stairs. He looked annoyed. "Why are you still here?"

Ashton wrapped her arms tighter around herself. "Carter... he was outside. That car. I couldn't..."

Isadore remembered the video from the club. The screaming, the glass. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I am not your bodyguard, Harmon."

"I just need to wait out the storm," she said, her voice trembling. "Or throw me out. But if he grabs me, the press will ask why you opened the gate for him."

Isadore let out a short, cynical laugh. "You have nerve." He pointed down the hall. "Guest room. Stay there. Be gone by six a.m."

The butler led her to a sterile, beige room. "I will bring you something dry," he said.

He returned with a white dress shirt. "Mr. Grimes does not keep women's clothing. This belongs to him."

Ashton took it. "Thank you."

When the door clicked shut, she stopped shivering instantly.

She stripped off her wet clothes and showered quickly. She put on Isadore's shirt. It was massive on her, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. It smelled of cedar and rain-a cold, expensive scent. She undid the top two buttons. Not enough to be trashy. Just enough to be a question.

She waited until the house was silent. The thunder covered the sound of her bare feet on the hardwood.

She crept into the hallway. The master bedroom door was ajar. Isadore was still downstairs working.

She slipped inside. The room was Spartan. A massive bed, grey sheets. On the nightstand, a stack of papers. Prenuptial Agreement Draft.

She didn't touch the papers. Instead, she reached up to her neck and unclasped the black velvet choker she always wore.

She heard a footstep on the stairs. He was coming.

Ashton moved to the side of the bed, near the massive oak headboard. She let the choker slip from her fingers, watching it fall into the narrow, dark gap between the mattress and the headboard. It was a place one would never feel, but a place an angry, suspicious fiancée, yanking pillows around, might just find.

She sprinted back to the door, slipping into the shadows of the hallway just as Isadore reached the landing. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She watched him walk into his room and close the door.

She leaned against the wall, letting out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

The alarm on her phone vibrated at 5:30 a.m. Ashton was already awake.

She folded Isadore's shirt with military precision and placed it on the foot of the bed. She dressed in her own clothes, which the butler had dried overnight.

In the bathroom, she took a tube of red lipstick. On the corner of the mirror, she wrote a six-digit number. A stock ticker for a company Charity's father was secretly shorting. She wiped it away with a tissue, leaving only a faint, red smear, as if she had tried to clean it in a hurry and failed.

She slipped out of the house like a shadow. Sloan was waiting down the road.

"Did you do it?" Sloan asked as Ashton climbed in.

"The seed is planted," Ashton said, buckling her seatbelt. "Isadore doesn't trust Charity. The prenup is brutal. He's protecting his assets from her."

Back at the estate, Isadore woke up. He slept efficiently, without moving much. He didn't check behind the headboard.

He went to the gym. While he was boxing, Charity arrived. She breezed past the butler, her heels clicking on the marble. She was early, manic with wedding planning energy.

"Isadore?" she called out.

"In the gym," the butler said. "He is not to be disturbed."

"I'm his fiancée," Charity snapped. "I'll wait in the bedroom."

She walked into the master suite, her eyes scanning the room, possessive and critical. She sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing the duvet. She reached out to fluff the pillow, her movements jerky and annoyed. She gave the heavy pillow an aggressive shove against the headboard.

Her fingers brushed against something soft. Velvet.

She pulled it out. A black choker with a small silver charm.

Charity froze. She knew this choker. She had seen it in a hundred paparazzi photos of Ashton Harmon.

Her face went white, then a blotchy, furious red. Her grip on the velvet tightened until her knuckles popped.

Isadore walked in, a towel draped around his neck, sweat glistening on his chest. He stopped when he saw her face.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

Charity held up the choker. Her hand was shaking. "Explain this."

Isadore looked at the object. He recognized it immediately. He remembered the girl in the rain, the oversized shirt.

He didn't flinch. He didn't apologize. "It belongs to the Harmon girl. She crashed in the guest room last night to avoid a stalker."

The truth was so blunt it took the wind out of Charity's sails. But the fact remained: Ashton had been here. In his house. And her jewelry was in his bed.

"In the guest room?" Charity hissed. "Then why was this in your bed?"

"She's a child playing games," Isadore said, walking past her to the dresser. He snatched the choker from her hand and tossed it into the wastebasket without looking at it. "Don't let her trash ruin my morning."

Charity stared at the bin. He had thrown it away. That should have been enough. But his indifference was worse than anger. He didn't care enough to lie.

"I'm going to destroy her," Charity whispered.

"Do it quietly," Isadore said, pulling on a fresh shirt. "I have a merger to close."

Later, at a campus coffee shop, Ashton's phone buzzed. An unknown number.

Stay away from him or you're dead.

Ashton showed the screen to Sloan. "She took the bait."

"You're playing with fire," Sloan said.

Ashton typed a reply. See you at the gala tonight, sis.

Back at the estate, Isadore waited until Charity stormed out. He walked over to the wastebasket. He looked at the black velvet ribbon lying among the tissues.

He reached down and picked it up. He didn't know why. Perhaps because it was evidence. Perhaps because he admired the sheer audacity of the move.

He opened his bedside drawer and dropped the choker inside.

"Ashton Harmon," he muttered. "What do you want?"

The ballroom of the Plaza Hotel was a sea of silk, diamonds, and fake laughter. It was Sloan's twenty-first birthday, but for the Upper East Side, it was just another arena.

Ashton wore a vintage black dress. It was three seasons old, but it fit her like a second skin. She stood near a pillar, holding a glass of water she pretended was vodka.

Charity entered with Isadore. She was clinging to his arm, flashing a diamond the size of a skating rink at every camera. Isadore looked bored. His body was stiff, leaning slightly away from her.

Charity spotted Ashton. Her smile turned into a baring of teeth. She whispered something to Brittany Pierce, her loyal lapdog.

Brittany marched over, holding a glass of red wine. "Ashton. Brave of you to show up. Is that the same dress you wore to the spring formal? I guess the dry cleaners are too expensive now."

A few people nearby tittered.

Ashton didn't blink. "Fashion is cyclical, Brittany. Unlike your personality, which has been trash since kindergarten."

Brittany's face flushed. She raised her glass, clearly intending to 'trip.'

Sloan stepped in, catching Brittany's wrist. "Don't even think about it."

Charity glided over. "Ladies, please. Ashton, if you need money for clothes, just ask. I know you're desperate. I heard you were begging for a place to sleep last night."

The circle of listeners gasped. The implication was clear: Ashton was selling herself.

Isadore was standing ten feet away, talking to a senator. He stopped. He turned his head, listening.

Ashton stepped closer to Charity. She dropped her voice to a whisper that cut through the noise. "You're so worried about last night. Is it because you realized money can buy a ring, but it can't buy his interest?"

Charity's mask cracked. Her eyes widened in genuine rage.

Ashton stepped back and raised her voice. "You think Isadore Grimes is a god? I bet I can make him lose control tonight."

"You're delusional," Brittany spat. "He hates you."

"Watch me," Ashton said.

She turned and walked toward the terrace doors. She passed Isadore. She didn't look at him. She didn't stop. But she trailed a hand along the back of a velvet chair near him, leaving a scent of rain and cedar-the same scent that was on his shirt this morning.

Isadore's nostrils flared. His eyes tracked her exit.

Charity saw the look. Panic flared in her chest.

Ashton stepped onto the terrace. The air was freezing. She walked to the railing, looking down at the dark garden below.

"Thought you could run?"

Ashton turned. Carter was there. He was drunk, swaying slightly, blocking the door. Charity must have let him in.

"Get out of my way, Carter," Ashton said, backing up.

"You ruined my reputation," Carter slurred, stepping closer. "You owe me."

Ashton glanced at the glass doors. She saw Isadore's silhouette approaching.

She moved. She didn't run past Carter. She climbed onto the stone railing.

It was reckless. A thirty-foot drop.

"What are you doing?" Carter yelled, sobering up instantly. "Get down, you psycho!"

Ashton stood on the ledge, the wind whipping her dress. She looked at the glass door. She saw Isadore's hand hit the handle.

She wasn't going to jump. But she needed Isadore to think she might. She needed to know if the machine had a heart, or at least, a liability clause.