The first thing Hope did the next day was take out the burner phone. The one she had only ever used to contact Drake.

His name was the only entry in the contacts.

Drake.

She deleted it.

A prompt appeared. Block this number?

She tapped Yes.

Then she went into the settings, wiped the phone, and restored it to factory settings. For good measure, she dropped it into a Ziploc bag, poured in half a bottle of bleach, and buried it at the bottom of the trash.

Done. Erased. He was a tool she was finished with, a loose end now tied up.

She opened her laptop and started her research. McCarthy Global Holdings. Project Skydome. She didn't need to understand the deal. She just needed to find a way to make Arley fail.

Across town, at the Simmons Group headquarters, Arley was in hell. He hadn't slept. He was fielding a constant barrage of hysterical texts from Kenia while trying to prepare for the most important pitch of his life.

He slammed his fist on the conference table. "This is all you could find?"

Projected on the screen were a handful of grainy, long-lens photos of a man's back, a shadowed profile getting into a car. The press called him "The Ghost of Wall Street."

"I don't care what it takes," Arley roared at his terrified team. "I want a meeting with Algernon McCarthy within the week!"

In her own office down the hall, Portia was more methodical. She was on the phone with a high-level headhunter, arranging to poach a mid-level executive from McCarthy's European office. Anything for an edge.

The entire Simmons family was obsessed, consumed by the need to impress a man they had never seen. A man they treated like a god.

At the top of the McCarthy tower, Algernon was in a video conference with his Zurich team.

His assistant approached silently and placed a new, sealed phone on his desk.

"Sir," the assistant said, his voice low. "The number you were using... it's no longer able to reach Ms. Perry."

Algernon held up a hand, silencing the Swiss banker on the screen. He picked up the new phone, which was a clone of his "Drake" device, and dialed her number.

A recorded voice, sterile and impersonal, answered. The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

His jaw tightened.

She hadn't just blocked him. She had scorched the earth. Thrown away like a piece of trash.

A cold, unfamiliar anger burned in his chest.

He looked down at the Simmons Group proposal he had planned to ignore for another week.

He changed his mind.

He uncapped a heavy fountain pen and scrawled his signature across the bottom of the letter.

"Reply to Simmons Group," he told his assistant, his voice dangerously calm. "Tell them I'm intrigued. My Director of Project Acquisitions will meet with them next week."

He would join their little game.

He wanted to be there. He wanted to see Hope Perry's face when she realized the toy she'd thrown away was the very god her enemies were praying to.

The family meeting was in Sterling's study. He threw a stack of printouts onto his desk. Gossip columns. Financial news sites.

Simmons Heir and Fiancée on the Rocks?

Tension at Hamptons Gala Raises Questions.

"At the exact moment we need to project stability to McCarthy, this is what you give me?" Sterling's voice was a low growl.

Arley's mother, Meredith, a woman with perfectly coiffed hair and eyes like a hawk, spoke up. "The board needs to see a united front, Arley. Especially with Portia making her own play for this deal. There can be no scandals."

Her sharp gaze landed on Hope.

"Which is why your father and I have decided. Hope, you'll be moving in with Arley. Today."

"No," they both said in unison.

"This is not a discussion," Sterling said flatly. "It's a directive. You will move into the Park Avenue penthouse. You will be seen by the press. You will act like a couple in love."

Meredith added the final, chilling instruction. "And Arley, it's time you and Hope started working on the next generation. A pregnancy would silence all rumors and solidify your position."

Hope felt sick. They wanted to use a child as a press release.

Arley, for all his dislike of her, hesitated. An heir. The ultimate trump card against Portia. He looked at Hope, his eyes filled with cold calculation.

She knew she couldn't refuse. They would just apply pressure through her father, and she'd be forced into it anyway. Better to gain some ground.

"Fine," she said, her voice clear and steady. "But I have a condition."

She looked directly at Sterling. "I want a position at Simmons Group. In the marketing department. I want a front-row seat to watch Arley win this McCarthy deal."

She needed to be inside the fortress to find its weaknesses.

Sterling and Meredith exchanged a look. It was a small price to pay to keep her under their thumb. They agreed.

The deal was struck. She was being moved into a gilded cage.

That afternoon, the movers were at her apartment. She directed them with a numb detachment. When they got to her bedroom, she looked at the large king-sized bed, the stage for her year-long act of rebellion with Drake. A wave of irritation washed over her.

"This bed," she told the foreman. "Throw it out."

In his office, Algernon's assistant delivered the daily report on Hope.

"Ms. Perry moved into Arley Simmons's Park Avenue penthouse this afternoon, sir. It appears to be at the family's request."

Algernon's hand, signing a document, stopped mid-stroke.

"Living together?" The question was quiet, but laced with ice.

"Yes, sir. And our source inside the Simmons household reports that Meredith Simmons is pressuring them to produce an heir as soon as possible."

Crack.

The expensive fountain pen in Algernon's hand snapped in two, splattering black ink across the document.

A savage, primal jealousy ripped through him. His. She was his. The thought of her living with another man, of them wanting her to bear another man's child... it was unacceptable.

He stood and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down on the city. His city. His kingdom.

And his queen was in another man's castle.

He would not allow it.

The Park Avenue penthouse was a cold, silent battlefield. Two master suites at opposite ends of a sprawling floor plan. For days, Hope and Arley were ghosts to each other.

Then, one night, Arley came home drunk. The McCarthy deal was stalled, Kenia was driving him insane, and he was losing.

He stumbled through the apartment, but instead of going to his own room, he used his key to open hers.

Hope shot up in bed, instantly awake. The reek of whiskey filled the room. "Get out, Arley."

He lurched toward the bed, his eyes glazed over. "Time to do... my duty," he slurred, echoing his mother's words. "Make an heir."

He lunged for her.

She fought back, kicking and scratching, but he was heavier, his drunken strength overwhelming. He pinned her wrists, his weight crushing her. The silk of her nightgown ripped. His foul, whiskey-sour breath was hot on her neck. Panic, cold and sharp, seized her.

Just as he fumbled with the sheets, she saw her opening.

She went still, letting her body go limp for a single, deceptive second.

He grunted, thinking she'd given up.

In that instant of his relaxed guard, she brought her knee up, hard and fast, with every ounce of strength she had. It connected squarely with his groin.

The sound he made was not human. A high-pitched, strangled shriek of pure agony. He convulsed and rolled off the bed, collapsing onto the floor in a writhing, fetal position.

Hope scrambled out of bed, pulling the torn silk of her nightgown around her. Her heart was a jackhammer against her ribs, but her eyes were ice.

She stood over him.

"Arley Simmons," she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "Have you forgotten our prenuptial agreement?"

He could only groan in response.

"Article 17, section 3," she recited from memory. "In the event of physical coercion or assault by either party, the aggrieved party reserves the right to unilaterally terminate the engagement and is entitled to the maximum compensation package outlined within."

She took out her phone. She wasn't recording, but he didn't need to know that.

"I have a recording of this entire... encounter," she lied smoothly. "Imagine what happens to the Simmons Group stock price when my lawyer releases it. Along with photos of my bruises."

His eyes, wide with pain and shock, flew open. The alcohol was gone, replaced by pure terror.

"You wouldn't," he gasped.

"Try me," she said. "Now get out of my room. Or the next person to hear this recording will be your sister."

The mention of Portia was the final blow. He knew she would use it to ruin him completely.

He dragged himself off the floor, clutching his groin, and staggered out of the room, defeated.

Hope locked the door and leaned against it, her body finally starting to tremble with delayed shock. But the fear quickly hardened into resolve.

Never again.

Across the street, in a darkened apartment, Algernon lowered a high-powered telescope. The micro-drone was too risky for sustained surveillance in this dense urban canyon; a fixed, long-range observation post was far more discreet. He had seen it all. He couldn't hear the words, but he was an expert lip-reader. He had seen the attack, her terror, and her brilliant, vicious counter-attack.

Relief washed over him, immediately followed by a murderous rage.

That animal had dared to touch her.

He picked up his phone.

"Get me the head of Simmons Group's project team on the line," he told his assistant. "Tell him I've had a change of heart. The meeting is tomorrow. Ten a.m. My office. I want to meet Arley Simmons personally."