She woke up screaming.

A hand clamped over her mouth, stifling the sound.

"Quiet."

She thrashed, her back hitting the headboard. She was back in the bedroom. The monster's room.

Augustine was sitting on the edge of the bed.

She scrambled backward, curling into a ball in the corner. "Don't touch me."

He held up a small jar. "It's arnica. For the bruises."

He reached out. She tried to kick him, but he caught her ankle. His grip was firm, inescapable. He dragged her leg toward him.

He scooped a dollop of the clear gel and smeared it on her shin, right where she had hit the floor yesterday. His fingers were cool. He massaged the gel into her skin with efficient, circular motions.

It was confusing. His touch was clinical, yet possessive. He was tending to the damage he had caused.

"Is this part of the inventory check?" she asked, her voice trembling with rage. "Polishing the merchandise?"

He didn't look up. "Damaged packaging lowers the asset value."

He moved to her wrist. He rubbed the gel over the purple marks left by his fingers.

"We have a schedule," he said. "Tomorrow night is the Sterling Foundation Gala. We are attending."

Her heart skipped a beat. "Sterling? Grant's family foundation?"

"Yes."

"Grant will be there," she said. Hope, foolish and bright, flared in her chest. "He'll see me. He'll help me."

Augustine stopped rubbing. He looked at her then. His eyes were filled with a terrible mix of pity and amusement.

"You still think he cares."

"We've been together for four years," she said. "He loves me."

Augustine pulled a tablet from the bedside table. He tapped the screen and held it up.

It was a video. A news interview. Grant was standing on the steps of a courthouse, microphones shoved in his face.

"Mr. Sterling, do you have any comment on the charges against your fiancée's father?"

Grant looked handsome. And completely unbothered.

"Let me be clear," Grant said, his voice smooth. "I was unaware of Mr. Mann's illegal activities. The Sterling family does not condone fraud. As for Aislinn... our engagement is effectively terminated. I cannot be associated with a criminal enterprise."

She stared at the screen. The world tilted.

"It's fake," she whispered. "It's AI. You made it."

Augustine tossed the tablet onto the duvet. "Your life has been liquidated, Aislinn. You are bankrupt. Emotionally and financially."

He leaned in, his face inches from hers. She could smell the antiseptic from his head wound.

"Your only asset left is the title of Mrs. Hoover."

"I don't believe you," she said, tears hot in her eyes. "I need to see him."

"Fine." Augustine sat back. "I'll let you see him. I'll let you watch him ignore you."

He snapped his fingers.

Marta entered carrying a garment bag. She unzipped it.

A dress spilled out. It was black silk, backless, with a slit that went up to the hip. It was beautiful. And it looked like armor.

"Wear it," Augustine ordered. "Don't embarrass me."

An hour later, she stood in front of the mirror.

The dress fit like a second skin. It was designed to distract. To make people look at her body so they wouldn't look at the fear in her eyes.

Augustine rolled up behind her. He was wearing a tuxedo. He looked like the devil dressed for dinner.

He held up a diamond necklace. A choker.

"Lift your hair."

She obeyed.

He fastened the clasp. The metal was ice cold against her neck. It felt heavy. Like a collar.

"Remember," he whispered, his breath ghosting over her ear. "Tonight, you belong to me."

A low thrumming sound vibrated through the floorboards.

"The helicopter is waiting," he said.

Jericho came in and pushed the wheelchair. She followed, walking in her high heels like a doll on a string.

They went up to the roof. The helicopter was a black insect against the grey sky.

As they lifted off, she looked down at the island. It was shrinking, disappearing into the mist.

She put on the headset. The noise of the rotors was deafening.

Augustine's voice came through the headphones, clear and distorted by the static.

"Try to run," he said, "and your father has an accident in the shower block at Rikers."

She looked at him across the small cabin. She clenched her hands in her lap until her knuckles turned white.

"I hate you," she said into the microphone.

He looked out the window at the approaching skyline of Manhattan.

"Good," he said. "Hate is a motivator."

The helicopter didn't land at the gala. It landed on a helipad atop a glass needle in Midtown.

"This isn't the hotel," she said as the rotors slowed.

"This is the penthouse," Augustine said. "We have a stop to make."

The apartment was a fortress of glass and steel. It was cold, modern, and lifeless.

"I'm not hungry," she said as Marta set a plate of food on the dining table.

"You haven't eaten in twenty-four hours," Augustine said. He was already eating, cutting a steak with precise, surgical movements.

"I'm on a hunger strike," she announced. "Until you let me call my lawyer."

He didn't even look up. "Starve then."

She sat on the sofa, watching him eat. Her stomach cramped. The smell of the seared meat was torture.

He finished his meal. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.

Then he pulled out his phone.

"Come here."

She didn't move.

"Jericho."

The bodyguard stepped forward. He grabbed her arm and hauled her off the sofa. He dragged her to the table and forced her into the chair next to Augustine.

Augustine held the phone in front of her face.

It was a grainy video feed. Security footage. A prison cafeteria.

An old man sat alone at a table. Her father. He looked frail, his hand shaking as he tried to lift a spoon.

Two younger inmates walked up to him. One knocked the tray off the table. The other shoved him. Her father fell out of his chair.

She gasped. "Dad!"

The inmates started kicking him.

"Stop it!" she screamed at the phone. "Stop it!"

Augustine paused the video.

"He needs protection," Augustine said. "Protection costs money. Money comes from the commissary fund. I control the fund."

He picked up a spoon. He scooped up some mashed potatoes.

He held it to her lips.

"Eat," he said. "Fuel the body that's going to save him."

She looked at the spoon. Then at the frozen image of her father on the floor.

She opened her mouth.

He fed her. It was humiliating. It was intimate. It was a violation.

She swallowed, tears streaming down her face. She choked on the food, coughing.

"Good," he said softly. He wiped a smudge of gravy from her lip with his thumb. "Now you have the strength to face reality."

The limousine ride to the Plaza Hotel was silent.

She stared out the tinted window. New York flashed by in streaks of neon.

Her stomach churned, a mix of the forced food and nerves.

"Stop shaking," Augustine said. He reached over and took her hand. His palm was warm. "Prey shakes. Predators don't."

"I am prey," she whispered.

"Not tonight. Tonight you are Mrs. Hoover."

The car slowed. They were at the back of the line for the red carpet. Flashbulbs popped like strobe lights.

She looked through the window at the couple ahead of them.

Her breath hitched.

It was Grant. He looked dashing in a velvet tux.

But he wasn't alone.

A woman was hanging on his arm. She was wearing a red dress. A dress she recognized. It was a custom Valentino. Her custom Valentino. The one she had ordered for their engagement party.

She turned her head, laughing at something Grant said.

Yvonne. Her stepsister.

The world stopped.

Her stepsister. The one who had cried with her when Dad was arrested. The one who said she would talk to Grant for her.

She was wearing her dress. She was holding her fiancé.

"No," she breathed. "No, no, no."

Her vision tunneled.

She reached for the door handle.

"Don't," Augustine said.

"Let me out!" she shrieked. "That bitch! That's my dress!"

She clawed at the lock.

Augustine hit the central lock button.

"Look at yourself," he hissed. "You're hysterical. You go out there now, you look like the crazy ex. You validate everything Grant said in the press."

"I don't care!" She was sobbing now, hitting the window. Grant looked toward the car, frowning.

"He sees us," she panicked. "Let me out!"

Augustine grabbed her shoulders. He yanked her away from the window, pinning her against the leather seat.

"Shut up, Aislinn."

"Let me-"

He lowered his head and crushed his mouth to hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a silencer.

His lips were hard, bruising. He tasted of scotch and mint.

She froze. Her brain short-circuited. The shock of the contact overrode the hysteria.

She tried to push him away, but his chest was a solid wall. His hand came up to cup the back of her neck, holding her in place. He deepened the kiss, his tongue forcing her lips apart, invading her mouth with an arrogance that made her toes curl.

It was aggressive. It was punishing. And God help her, it was grounding.

Outside, the cameras flashed. Pop-pop-pop.

They couldn't see through the tint, but they knew something was happening in the Hoover limo.

Grant turned back to Yvonne, losing interest in the dark car. They walked up the stairs and into the hotel.

Augustine pulled back.

They were both breathing hard. His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide again.

She stared at him, her lips throbbing.

Then the rage returned.

Smack.

She slapped him. Hard.

His head snapped to the side. The sound echoed in the quiet cabin.

She waited for him to hit her back. To call Jericho.

Slowly, Augustine turned his face back to her. He ran his tongue over his teeth. A slow, dark smile spread across his face.

"Better," he said. "Channel that fire. Don't waste it on tears."

He tapped the partition. "Driver. Take us back."

"What?" she gasped. "No! We have to go in!"

"Not tonight," he said. "Tonight you are a victim. Tomorrow, we make you a weapon. If you go in there now, you lose. You let them see you bleed."

The car made a U-turn.

She watched the Plaza Hotel disappear. She watched Grant and Yvonne disappear.

She slumped back in the seat, defeated.

Back at the penthouse, she went straight to the bar.

She didn't bother with a glass. She grabbed a bottle of vodka and took a swig. The burn was welcome. It numbed the ache in her chest.

"Slow down," Augustine said from the doorway. He had wheeled himself in.

"Go to hell," she muttered. She took another drink.

Ten minutes later, the bottle was half empty. The room was swimming.

She felt reckless. Dangerous.

She walked over to him. She swayed slightly.

She looked down at him in his chair. For once, she was taller.

"You think you own me," she slurred. "Because you bought my debt."

She fumbled with the tiny clutch bag he had given her. She pulled out the black Centurion card he had put in there for "emergencies."

She threw it at him.

It hit his chest and slid into his lap.

"I want to buy you," she announced. "How much? How much for the great Augustine Hoover to be my toy for the night?"

He looked at the card. Then up at her. His expression was unreadable.

"You can't afford me, Aislinn."

"Everyone has a price," she mocked, echoing his earlier words.

She straddled his lap.

It was the alcohol. It had to be. But it was also a desperate gamble. Maybe she could get his wallet, his phone, a key... anything to get out of there. Anything to get back to Leo.

She sat on his thighs, her dress riding up. She grabbed the lapels of his tuxedo.

"I want to forget," she whispered, leaning in. "Make me forget them."

He went still. His hands came up to grip her waist. His thumbs dug into her hips.

"Be careful," he warned, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "You are playing with things you don't understand."

"I don't care."

She kissed him.

This time, she started it. And this time, he didn't hold back.