Grace shoved the boys behind her back.

She crept toward the thick glass wall of the VIP lounge, pressing her shoulder against the frame.

Peered through the frosted stripes.

Ten massive men in identical black suits marched down the corridor. Earpieces coiled behind their ears. Movement precise, lethal – ex-special forces, or worse.

The lead man held a radio to his mouth. His face was carved from violence.

Grace’s lungs seized.

Right. Dangerous. They’d hurt the boys.

The boy on her left tugged her shirt hem. Pointed a small finger toward a gray ‘Employees Only’ door at the lounge’s rear.

The bespectacled boy pulled up a blueprint on his tablet. “Corridor leads to underground parking,” he whispered.

No time to question a child hacking airport schematics. Survival instinct roared, drowning the tremor in her hands.

Grace dropped to her knees, ripped open her duffel.

Muscle memory took over. Years of stage combat, prop wrangling, desperate scrabbling – channeled into frantic disguise.

She yanked out a massive khaki trench coat. Shoved the smallest boy inside, buttoning it to his chin.

Dug out a vintage silk scarf. Wrapped it tightly around the left boy’s head, covering his hair, jammed cheap plastic sunglasses onto his face.

Snatched her wide-brimmed straw hat, crammed it onto the bespectacled boy’s head.

She pulled her gray hoodie up, snapping a surgical mask over her nose and mouth. The fabric felt flimsy armor against the terror clawing her throat.

Through the glass, the lead bodyguard pointed at the lounge doors.

Ten yards.

Grace sucked in a breath like shrapnel. Scooped the smallest boy into her left arm. Grabbed the other two’s hands with her right.

Crouched low, using the potted palms as a shield – a trick learned dodging stage managers and paparazzi.

She moved fast toward the gray door.

A bodyguard outside stopped. Head turned. Eyes locked onto the gaps between fronds.

Grace’s heart stuttered.

She slammed back against the wall, pulling the boys flat against her legs, breath trapped in her chest.

The bespectacled boy reached into his pocket. A small black device. Button pressed.

Outside: The bodyguard doubled over, ripping out his earpiece, face contorted by a burst of agonizing static.

Go!

Grace shoved the gray door open, dragging the boys into the bleach-scented, dusty dark.

Behind them: the VIP lounge doors crashed open.

“GONE!” a voice roared.

Grace ran.

Boots slapped concrete. She half-carried, half-dragged the boys down the narrow hall.

The boy in her arms wasn’t crying. He was laughing. Soft, breathless giggles vibrated against her neck – a bizarre counterpoint to the pounding of her heart and the roar of blood in her ears.

Grace clamped her hand over his mouth. “Shh!” Cold sweat snaked down her spine.

The heavy metal fire door loomed. Green EXIT sign glowed.

She hit the crash bar with her shoulder.

The door flew open. Cold, damp garage air slapped her face.

She stepped onto concrete.

Two blinding beams SNAPPED on – searing her retinas. She flinched violently, squeezing her eyes shut and turning her head away, the sudden agony a white-hot spike through her fragile nerves.

A massive, armored black Maybach glided forward in absolute silence.

It stopped inches from her knees, blocking the exit.

The rear passenger door and the front passenger door popped open simultaneously.

More men in black suits poured out, forming an impassable wall around Grace and the boys.

The tinted window of the still-closed rear driver’s side door began to lower silently.

A man sat in the shadows within.

His side profile was carved from arctic ice. Cold. Brutal. Terrifyingly still.

The rear door of the Maybach swung open.

A pair of long legs stepped out onto the concrete.

Bryce Delaney stood up. The custom Armani suit stretched across his broad shoulders, radiating a suffocating, violent authority.

The headlights cast long, sharp shadows across his face.

Grace couldn't see clearly through the glare. She shoved the three boys behind her legs.

She planted her feet, her body curling into a protective, animalistic stance.

Bryce's cold eyes scanned the cheap hoodie and the surgical mask covering Grace's face.

A muscle feathered in his jaw.

"Take her," Bryce ordered. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated against the concrete walls.

Two bodyguards lunged forward.

Their massive hands reached for Grace's shoulders.

Grace didn't think.

Her body reacted on pure instinct.

She twisted her torso, dropping her center of gravity. She drove her combat boot hard into the first guard's kneecap.

The guard grunted in pain and stumbled backward, surprised by the sudden ferocity of her instinctual attack.

Bryce's eyes narrowed. A flash of dark surprise crossed his face.

The second guard reached for Grace's neck.

Before he could touch her, the boy with the scarf ripped off his sunglasses and threw himself in front of Grace.

He spread his small arms wide.

"Stand down!" the boy screamed. His voice carried the exact same terrifying authority as the man in the suit.

The bodyguards froze instantly. They looked at Bryce, terrified to move.

Bryce stared at his son. His eldest boy, who never showed emotion, was willing to take a hit for a stranger.

The other two boys ran out from behind Grace. They wrapped their arms around her thighs, glaring at Bryce with angry accusation, their small faces pinched with pure defiance.

Grace's chest heaved. She reached up and ripped the surgical mask off her face to get more air.

The cold wind in the garage blew the hood off her head.

The harsh glare of the headlights illuminated her face perfectly.

Bryce stopped breathing.

The air vanished from his lungs. His heart slammed against his ribs so hard he thought they would shatter.

His pupils dilated.

It was her.

The face he had searched for in the rubble. The face that haunted every single one of his nightmares for five years.

Grace.

Bryce's hands started to shake. He took a slow, agonizing step forward.

"You..." The word tore out of his throat, raw and bleeding.

Grace looked at him.

Her eyes were wide. But there was no recognition.

There was only pure, unadulterated fear and disgust.

"Stay back," Grace hissed. "If you touch them, I will scream until the LAPD gets here."

Bryce stopped dead in his tracks.

The physical pain in his chest was unbearable. She was looking at him like he was a monster.

She didn't know him. The amnesia was real.

Bryce swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He forced the agonizing grief down into his stomach.

He locked his facial muscles into a mask of absolute, corporate indifference.

"I am their father," Bryce said coldly. "Get in the car."

Grace froze.

She looked down at the three boys clinging to her.

The boys dropped their heads, staring at the concrete.

The realization hit Grace like a physical slap. They lied to her.

The embarrassment burned her cheeks. But the danger radiating from the man in the suit kept her muscles tense.

"Get in the car," Bryce repeated. "Or I will have you arrested for kidnapping."

The bodyguards stepped closer, cutting off every angle of escape.

Grace looked at the boys. She couldn't leave them with this tyrant.

She clenched her jaw, grabbed the boys' hands, and climbed into the back of the Maybach.

Bryce slid in right beside her.

The heavy door slammed shut, sealing them inside.

The scent of cedar and dark musk filled the tight space. Bryce's large frame took up all the oxygen.

The Maybach shot out of the garage, tearing onto the highway toward Beverly Hills.

The Maybach slowed as it approached massive wrought-iron gates.

The gates swung open, revealing the sprawling, heavily fortified grounds of the Delaney estate in Beverly Hills.

The car glided up the long driveway and stopped in front of the main house.

A line of maids and a head butler stood in perfect formation on the marble steps.

The car door opened.

Grace stared at the blinding wealth. The marble columns. The manicured lawns. Her stomach twisted with a sickening realization of how out of her depth she was.

Bryce stepped out first.

He ignored the staff. He turned around and held his large, scarred hand out to Grace.

Grace looked at his hand.

She ignored it. She slid across the leather seat and jumped out of the car herself, putting three feet of distance between them.

Bryce's hand hung in the empty air.

His knuckles turned white. He slowly lowered his arm, his face hardening back into stone.

The butler stepped forward to take the boys inside.

The boys grabbed fistfuls of Grace's cheap shirt.

"She stays with us!" the eldest boy yelled. "She is our nanny now!"

Bryce looked down at his sons. His eyes were pitch black.

"Go wash up. Now," Bryce commanded. The tone left zero room for negotiation.

The boys flinched. They let go of Grace's shirt and dragged their feet up the stairs, looking back at her with desperate eyes.

The heavy oak doors closed.

Grace and Bryce were left alone in the massive, echoing foyer.

The silence was thick and suffocating.

Bryce tilted his head toward the sweeping staircase. "My study."

Grace hesitated, her muscles tight, but she followed him up the stairs.

They walked into a massive room smelling of old paper and expensive cigars.

Bryce walked in and pushed the heavy door shut.

Click.

The sound of the lock engaging echoed like a gunshot.

Grace's spine snapped straight. She took a fast step backward until her shoulder blades hit the wood of the door.

Bryce walked over to a crystal decanter. He poured two glasses of amber whiskey.

He held one out to her.

"Let me out," Grace said, her voice shaking with anger. "I have an audition. I am already late."

Bryce didn't put the glass down.

His dark eyes slowly dragged over her face. He memorized every curve, every breath she took.

"October 14th," Bryce said softly. "A rooftop in Brooklyn. It was raining."

Grace's eyebrows pulled together.

"What are you talking about?" she snapped.

Bryce set the glass down hard.

He crossed the room in three long strides.

He planted his hands flat against the door, trapping Grace between his arms.

His chest brushed against hers. The heat coming off his body was scorching.

He lowered his head. His lips hovered an inch from her ear.

"Gracie," he whispered.

The nickname sent a violent shudder through Grace's body.

But it wasn't a shudder of recognition. It was pure, visceral revulsion.

She shoved both her hands hard against his chest.

"Get off me, you psycho!" she screamed.

Bryce stumbled back a step.

The physical rejection hit him harder than a bullet.

He stared at her angry, disgusted eyes. She really didn't remember. The girl who used to look at him like he hung the stars now looked at him like a predator.

Bryce closed his eyes. He inhaled sharply, burying the agony deep in his chest.

When he opened his eyes, the broken man was gone. The ruthless billionaire was back.

He walked behind his massive mahogany desk and sat down.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a thick stack of legal documents.

He threw the papers onto the center of the desk. The heavy thud echoed in the room.

"My sons need a mother figure," Bryce said, his voice stripped of all emotion. "You need money and resources."

Grace frowned. She pushed off the door and walked slowly toward the desk.

She looked down at the bold black letters printed across the top page.

Prenuptial Agreement.