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.

Harsh morning sunlight sliced through the window blinds, throwing sharp, jagged shadows across the expensive Persian rug in the Oneal Group CEO office.

Emerson sat behind his massive mahogany desk. His face was carved from ice as he flipped open the morning edition of the Wall Street Journal.

The front page headline screamed in bold black ink: ANH GROUP UNDER SIEGE BY UNKNOWN SHORT SELLERS.

The heavy office doors opened. J. Moss walked in quickly, clutching a thick stack of briefing folders to his chest. He looked nervous as he approached the desk.

"Good morning, sir," Moss said, speaking fast. "Your schedule for today is extremely tight. At ten o'clock, you have the sit-down with Wall Street titan Preston Hancock. At two o'clock, you are teeing off with Senator Clarence Dover."

These were not just meetings. These were the foundational pillars of the Oneal Group's strategy for the next five years. Missing them was not an option.

Emerson didn't even blink. He didn't look up from the newspaper. He just opened his hand and let the paper drop flat onto the desk with a soft slap.

"Cancel it," Emerson said.

Moss froze. He almost dropped the folders. He stared at his boss, his mouth hanging open slightly. "I... I'm sorry, sir? Did you say cancel?"

Emerson slowly lifted his head. His dark eyes locked onto Moss with a crushing, physical weight.

"Cancel everything," Emerson repeated, his voice dangerously low. "Clear my entire schedule for tonight."

Moss swallowed hard. He forced himself to speak. "Sir, Mr. Hancock has a notoriously vicious temper. If we stand him up today, it could blow up a multi-billion dollar merger."

A flash of raw, violent irritation ripped through Emerson's eyes.

He reached down and grabbed the solid gold fountain pen resting on his desk. He gripped it in his fist and squeezed.

Snap.

The thick gold barrel bent and broke in half. Black ink exploded from the cartridge. It splattered across the pristine white cuff of his custom shirt, looking exactly like a spray of black blood.

"The Oneal Group," Emerson growled, his voice vibrating with rage, "does not answer to anyone. Do you understand me?"

Moss physically shrank back. "Yes, sir. Right away, sir." He scrambled to pull out his tablet, his fingers shaking as he deleted the meetings.

Emerson leaned back in his leather chair. He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples.

"Send a private invitation to Jerri McMahon," Emerson ordered, keeping his eyes closed. "Use the official company letterhead. Tell her to meet me tonight at eight o'clock. At The Scarlet Lounge. In my private room."

Moss's eyes went wide with absolute shock. He couldn't comprehend why his boss would choose that specific, traumatizing location to meet her.

But looking at the broken gold pen bleeding ink onto the desk, Moss kept his mouth shut. He nodded quickly and rushed out of the office to execute the order.

When the door clicked shut, Emerson stood up. He took off his ruined suit jacket and threw it on the chair. He walked over to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room.

He stared at the cold, ruthless billionaire looking back at him. The corner of his mouth twitched up into a bitter, agonizing smile.

He had to see her. He couldn't just watch her suffer through a screen anymore. But he knew his grandfather's spies were watching his every move. Meeting her at The Scarlet Lounge was the only way to make the old man believe he was dragging her there to torture her, not to save her.

His cell phone buzzed loudly on the sofa.

Emerson walked over and picked it up. It was Clemens.

He answered the call. Clemens's voice immediately blasted through the speaker, yelling, "Are you out of your mind?! Preston just called me screaming! Why did you cancel the meeting?"

"I have more important business to handle," Emerson said, his voice completely dead.

Before Clemens could say another word, Emerson pressed the end call button. He tossed the phone back onto the sofa.

He walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured a drink, and stood by the window. He looked out over the city, his eyes fixing on the distant skyline where the Anh Group building stood.

Tonight, he was going to break her heart all over again. It was the only way to keep her breathing.