Jerri pushed open the heavy door to her penthouse apartment. She kicked off her black stilettos, leaving them scattered on the expensive entryway rug.

She didn't turn on the main lights. She walked straight into the master bathroom and reached into the glass shower enclosure. She cranked the silver handle all the way to the left.

Scalding hot water blasted from the rain showerhead.

She stripped off her clothes and stepped under the stream. Thick white steam quickly filled the room. Through the haze, she looked at the large fogged mirror. She turned slightly, looking over her shoulder.

There it was. The massive, jagged cross of a scar cutting across her pale back.

The hot water hitting her skin suddenly felt wrong. The temperature twisted in her brain. It didn't feel like hot water anymore. It felt like freezing, ice-cold champagne.

Her mind was violently dragged back to the night of her eighteenth birthday. The heavy bass of the club music vibrated in her skull.

She saw her younger self, wearing a pristine white dress, walking toward Emerson with her heart full of hope. He was surrounded by the city's elite.

Emerson turned to look at her. The look in his eyes wasn't love. It was a disgust so pure it made her stomach drop.

"She is nothing but a dog raised by the Oneal family," Emerson's voice echoed in her memory, loud enough for everyone to hear. "She doesn't belong here."

The crowd erupted. The shrill, mocking laughter of the socialites stabbed into her eardrums like needles.

She stepped back in pure shock. Someone in the crowd stuck their foot out.

She tripped. She fell backward, crashing hard into the massive, ten-tier champagne tower. The sound of hundreds of crystal glasses shattering was deafening.

Huge, razor-sharp shards of glass sliced deep into her back. Warm blood instantly soaked through her white dress, turning it a horrifying red.

She looked up from the floor, gasping in pain. Emerson stood there, looking down at her. He didn't reach out a hand. Instead, he wrapped his arm around the waist of a blonde heiress standing next to him.

Jerri forced herself to stand up. Blood dripped down her legs. She stumbled out of the club, running into the pouring rain, trying to escape the stares.

The memory shifted violently. A dark, rain-slicked highway. The blinding headlights of a massive freight truck swerving into her lane. The sickening crunch of metal crushing her taxi.

Then, dead silence. The thick, metallic smell of blood filling her nose.

Jerri slammed her hand against the shower wall. She reached out and violently twisted the water off. She stood there, gripping the edge of the marble sink, gasping for air as if she had been drowning.

She grabbed her toothbrush. She squeezed a massive, thick layer of heavy mint toothpaste onto the bristles and shoved it into her mouth. She brushed aggressively, scrubbing her teeth and tongue until her gums ached.

Thick, chemical foam filled her mouth. But there was nothing else.

No sharp sting of peppermint. No cooling sensation. Nothing.

She spat the white foam into the sink and stared blankly at her reflection. She remembered the cold, clinical voice of the doctor after she woke up from the coma.

Her naive love for Emerson had died on the floor of that club. The car crash that followed only served to seal her past in a tomb of physical pain, severing her olfactory and gustatory nerves.

Her sense of taste was dead.

A soft knock sounded on the bathroom door.

"Ms. McMahon?" Gladys, her housekeeper, called out softly. "I brought you a fresh cup of black coffee."

Jerri quickly grabbed a thick white bathrobe and tied it tightly around her waist. She took a deep breath, rearranged her facial muscles into a calm expression, and opened the door.

Gladys stood there holding a steaming mug. Jerri took it with a smile.

She lifted the mug to her lips and took a massive gulp of the scalding, pitch-black liquid. She didn't add sugar. She didn't add cream.

"Oh, please be careful," Gladys said, her brow wrinkling with worry. "That roast is incredibly bitter today. It will ruin your stomach."

Jerri lowered the mug. She offered Gladys a perfect, warm smile.

"Don't worry, Gladys," Jerri lied smoothly. "I actually love how rich and bitter it is now. It wakes me up."

Gladys smiled, looking relieved, and turned to walk back to the kitchen. She had no idea that Jerri was drinking something that tasted exactly like hot tap water.

Jerri walked back to the bathroom sink and poured the rest of the coffee down the drain. She rinsed the mug until it was spotless, leaving no trace of her lie.

She walked out to the floor-to-ceiling windows of her living room. She looked down at the glittering lights of Manhattan. The vulnerability in her eyes hardened into sharp glass.

She picked up her phone and dialed her VP.

"Prepare the defense strategy," Jerri ordered. "If the Oneal Group wants a war, we give them one."

The black Aston Martin roared down the street and slammed its brakes, stopping violently right in front of the main entrance of The Scarlet Lounge.

The valet rushed forward, his hands shaking as he pulled the heavy door open. He kept his eyes glued to the pavement, absolutely terrified to look at the man stepping out of the car.

Emerson Oneal stepped onto the curb. His long legs and perfectly tailored, dark charcoal suit radiated a suffocating level of dominance.

He walked into the club with a cold, hard face. The heavy bass thumped through the floorboards, but as he moved through the crowded dance floor, the sea of people parted automatically. No one dared to stand in his way.

He walked straight to the back, pushing open the door to the exclusive VIP room. He dropped his heavy frame onto the dark red velvet sofa.

J. Moss, his chief assistant, was already waiting. Moss immediately stepped forward and handed Emerson a highly encrypted tablet.

On the screen was a live security feed. It showed the street across from the club, recorded exactly thirty minutes ago. It showed a black Maybach.

Emerson stared at the screen. He zoomed in. He could see the faint silhouette of Jerri sitting in the back seat.

A violent storm ripped through his dark eyes. He watched the video play. He saw Jerri's hand reach down and dig her fingers into the edge of the car window. He could see the tension in her shoulders. He knew exactly how much pain she was in.

Emerson's jaw locked so tight his teeth ground together. The fingers of his right hand, holding an unlit cigar, turned completely white from the pressure.

He suddenly raised his arm and slammed the tablet face-down onto the thick crystal coffee table. The heavy thud echoed loudly in the room.

Moss flinched, taking a quick half-step backward. He lowered his head, not daring to make a single sound.

Emerson reached up and violently yanked at his silk tie, loosening it. His chest heaved. The air in the room felt too thick to breathe. His lungs were burning.

He reached for the crystal decanter on the table, poured three fingers of straight whiskey into a glass, and threw it back. He didn't use ice. The raw alcohol burned a fiery path down his throat, but it did nothing to numb the ache in his chest.

He turned his head and looked out the one-way glass of the VIP room, staring at the main floor. He looked at the exact spot where the giant champagne tower used to sit.

The space was completely empty.

No one else knew why. For seven years, Emerson had issued a strict, unbreakable rule: no champagne towers were ever allowed inside The Scarlet Lounge again.

"Sir," Moss whispered carefully, breaking the silence. "The elder Mr. Oneal's men are downstairs. They are watching."

Hearing his grandfather's title, the raw pain in Emerson's eyes vanished. It was instantly swallowed by a layer of absolute, terrifying cruelty.

Emerson let out a dark, humorless laugh. He slammed his empty whiskey glass down onto the table so hard that a spiderweb crack fractured the thick glass base.

"Tell the brokers," Emerson ordered, his voice dripping with ice. "Double the leverage on the Anh Group acquisition. Right now."

Moss's head snapped up in shock. "Sir, if we double the leverage, the Oneal Group's short-term cash flow will be under massive pressure. The board will panic."

"Did I ask for your financial advice?" Emerson barked, his voice sounding like a tyrant demanding blood. "I don't care what it costs. Squeeze her until she has no choice but to show her face."

The heavy door to the VIP room suddenly swung open. Aliyah Oconnell walked in, her hips swaying perfectly in a tight designer dress.

She ignored the suffocating tension in the room. She walked straight to the sofa and sat down right next to Emerson, reaching out to loop her arm through his.

Emerson's entire body went rigid. A flash of pure disgust hit the back of his throat. He wanted to shove her across the room.

But out of the corner of his eye, he caught the tiny, blinking red light hidden in the air vent near the ceiling. His grandfather's camera.

Emerson swallowed the bile in his throat. He forced his muscles to relax. He reached his arm around Aliyah's waist and pulled her against his shoulder.

"Are you in a bad mood, darling?" Aliyah purred, tracing a finger down his chest. "Is it because of that bankrupt little heiress who just crawled back to the city?"

Emerson stared straight ahead at the empty dance floor. His voice was flat and merciless.

"She is nothing but prey," Emerson said coldly. "And she's about to lose everything."

Where Aliyah couldn't see, hidden in the shadows beside his thigh, Emerson's left hand curled into a tight fist. He squeezed so hard his fingernails broke the skin of his palm.

Emerson pushed open the heavy, solid oak doors of the Aurora Private Club's penthouse suite.

The massive room smelled of expensive cigar smoke and old money. Clemens Pate was standing next to the custom mahogany pool table, casually rubbing blue chalk onto the tip of his cue stick.

Seeing Emerson walk in, Clemens immediately dropped the cue stick. He walked over to the wet bar, poured a glass of premium bourbon, and handed it to him.

Emerson took the glass without a word. He walked straight past Clemens and stood in front of the massive tactical whiteboard taking up half the wall. The board was covered in printed financial sheets, stock charts, and the internal data of the Anh Group.

Clemens walked up beside him, leaning against the wall. He let out a mocking, arrogant laugh.

"Look at this garbage," Clemens sneered, tapping the board. "Her cash flow is a joke. One little push and the whole company shatters."

Emerson's face was completely blank. He picked up a thick black marker from the tray. He raised his hand and drew a harsh, thick 'X' over the names of three core suppliers listed on the board.

"Use your contacts on Wall Street," Emerson ordered, his voice dead and mechanical. "Cut off their credit lines. I want these three suppliers to halt all shipments to Anh Group by tomorrow morning."

Clemens watched the aggressive strokes of the marker. A spark of genuine excitement lit up his eyes. "Brilliant. Starve her out."

Clemens stepped closer to Emerson. He lowered his voice, letting a venomous tone bleed into his words. "That bitch is like a ghost. I can't believe she has the nerve to show her face in this city again. I don't want to see you get dragged down by that woman again."

The marker in Emerson's hand stopped dead.

He pressed the tip so hard against the whiteboard that it let out a loud, ear-piercing screech.

Emerson slowly turned his head. His eyes locked onto Clemens. The look in his eyes was like a physical blade scraping across Clemens's throat.

"Watch your mouth," Emerson warned, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

Clemens felt his heart violently seize in his chest. The sheer terror in Emerson's gaze made him want to step back, but he forced himself to stay still. He immediately threw both hands up in the air in a mock surrender.

"Hey, relax, man," Clemens forced a dry laugh, trying to keep his playboy mask intact. "I'm just looking out for my brother. I don't want to see you get dragged down by that woman again."

Emerson pulled his gaze away. He stared back at the board. "I am only taking back what belongs to the Oneal family. Nothing more."

Clemens turned around to walk back to the bar. The second his back was to Emerson, the casual smile vanished from his face. His features twisted into a mask of pure, ugly jealousy.

He grabbed the neck of the bourbon bottle. He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles popped. He didn't hate Jerri because she lied to Emerson. He hated her because, even after seven years, she still owned every single piece of Emerson's heart.

Clemens took a deep breath, smoothing out his facial features. He turned back around, holding a thick manila folder.

"Here," Clemens said, handing it over. "The draft for the hostile acquisition intent. It's brutal."

Emerson opened the folder. He flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the legal jargon. His eyebrows pulled together into a tight frown.

He suddenly pulled a pen from his inside pocket. He pressed the pen to the paper and violently scratched out a whole paragraph. It was the clause demanding Jerri issue a public apology and resign in disgrace.

"Whoa, what are you doing?" Clemens asked, his voice rising in shock. "Why are you going soft? That clause is the best part. It will completely break her."

"I want a functional company," Emerson said, his voice hard as stone. "I don't want a worthless, scandal-ridden mess that tanks the stock price the second I buy it."

It was a flawless business excuse. It shut Clemens up instantly, but the dark suspicion in Clemens's eyes didn't completely fade.

"Fine," Clemens tested the waters. "But what are you going to do with her once you own the company?"

Emerson walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window. He turned his back to Clemens. He took a slow drag from his cigar and blew the smoke against the glass.

"I'm going to banish her from New York," Emerson said, his voice completely flat, devoid of any human emotion. "She will never step foot on Wall Street again."

Hearing that, a genuine, relieved smile finally broke across Clemens's face. He believed Emerson had finally let her go.

But Clemens couldn't see Emerson's face.

Staring at his own faint reflection in the glass, Emerson's eyes were filled with a crushing, suffocating sorrow. He knew the truth. The only way to keep her alive, the only way to hide her from his grandfather's assassins, was to force her out of the city and lock her away in his private estate on the West Coast—The Sanctuary.

Emerson raised his glass and swallowed the rest of the bourbon.

He had to see her. Tomorrow.