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.

At exactly eight o'clock, Jerri stood in the dimly lit hallway outside the VIP room.

She was wearing a razor-sharp, tailored black suit. It was her armor. She took a deep breath, fighting down the violent nausea twisting in her stomach just from breathing the air inside this club.

She reached out and pushed open the heavy, soundproof door.

The scene inside hit her eyes like a physical strike.

The lights in the room were low and moody. Emerson was leaning back against the dark leather sofa. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, radiating a raw, dangerous energy.

And Aliyah Oconnell was sitting practically on his lap, leaning heavily against his chest, holding a glass of red wine.

Jerri's feet stopped moving. It felt like an invisible hand reached into her chest and squeezed her heart until it bruised.

She dropped her arms to her sides. Her hands instantly curled into tight fists. She drove her fingernails so hard into her palms that the sharp pain finally sliced through the fog in her brain, forcing her to stay rational.

Hearing the door open, Emerson slowly raised his eyes. His cold, predatory gaze cut through the air and landed on her.

He didn't push Aliyah away. Instead, he moved his hand and placed it flat against Aliyah's waist, his thumb slowly rubbing the fabric of her dress.

Aliyah turned her head. When she saw Jerri standing there, a nasty, victorious smirk spread across her face.

Jerri swallowed hard, forcing the metallic taste of blood down her throat. She stepped forward. Her high heels clicked evenly against the hardwood floor. She walked straight to the armchair opposite them and sat down.

She elegantly crossed her legs and placed her Birkin bag on the table. Her posture was flawless. She looked like a CEO ready to execute a hostile firing.

"Let's skip the games," Jerri said, her voice freezing the air in the room. "What is your bottom line for the Anh Group acquisition?"

Emerson stared at the perfect, emotionless mask on her face. A violent, destructive urge ripped through his chest. He wanted to tear that mask off.

He let out a dark chuckle. He picked up his glass and took a slow sip.

"What makes you think you have any leverage to negotiate with me?" Emerson asked, his voice dripping with contempt.

Aliyah leaned closer to Emerson's ear. She spoke in a loud, breathy whisper designed to carry across the room. "She really doesn't know her place, does she?"

Jerri shifted her eyes. She looked at Aliyah's fake, exaggerated expression for exactly one second. Then she looked away, dismissing her completely, as if Aliyah were a piece of trash on the floor.

The absolute dismissal made Aliyah's face turn red with fury. She sat up straight, opening her mouth to scream an insult.

But before she could speak, Emerson casually raised his hand and patted Aliyah's arm. It was a silent command to quiet down.

That small, protective gesture hit Jerri harder than a bullet. It completely shredded the last tiny, pathetic piece of hope she didn't even know she was holding onto.

Jerri unzipped her bag. She pulled out a thick legal document and placed it deliberately on the crystal coffee table. The soft, definitive sound echoed the finality of her decision.

"This is our poison pill strategy," Jerri said, her voice sharp and clear. "If you force this hostile takeover, we will flood the market with new shares. You won't get the Anh Group. You will get an empty, bleeding shell."

Emerson didn't even glance at the document. His dark eyes locked onto hers with terrifying intensity.

He leaned forward, his massive frame eating up the space between them. The sheer physical pressure radiating from him was suffocating.

"I don't care if the Anh Group lives or dies," Emerson stated, his voice a cruel, low rumble. "I am just enjoying the process of destroying you."

The words struck her like lightning. The blood instantly drained from Jerri's face, leaving her pale as a ghost. But she bit down hard on the inside of her cheek and refused to look away.

Aliyah let out a shrill, piercing laugh. "You were thrown out of here like a dog seven years ago, Jerri. And look at you now. Still a pathetic loser."

Jerri suddenly stood up. She looked down at the two of them sitting on the sofa. Her eyes were filled with absolute, freezing resolve.

"If you want a war," Jerri said coldly, "the Anh Group will fight you to the death."

She didn't wait for an answer. She turned around and walked toward the door. Her back was perfectly straight, but her shoulders were trembling slightly under the fabric of her suit.