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.

His hands were everywhere.

One hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back. The other gripped her thigh, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.

He kissed her like he wanted to devour her. It was angry and desperate. It was the clash of two people who hated the world and each other, finding the only common ground in the friction of skin.

She ground down against him.

A low groan vibrated in his throat.

The wheelchair shifted. They tilted dangerously.

"Not here," he growled against her mouth.

He gripped her waist and lifted her. Even without his legs, his upper body strength was terrifying. He tossed her onto the leather sofa nearby.

He wheeled himself closer, his eyes predatory.

The room spun.

The sudden movement was a mistake. The vodka in her stomach sloshed violently.

The heat turned to nausea in a split second.

"Wait," she gasped.

She put a hand over her mouth.

Augustine reached for her. "Aislinn?"

She lurched forward.

She vomited.

All over his pristine tuxedo trousers. All over the expensive rug.

The smell of bile and alcohol filled the air, instantly killing the mood.

Augustine froze. He looked down at his lap. His face went blank with shock, then twisted into a mask of pure disgust.

"Jesus Christ."

She groaned and flopped back onto the cushions. The room was spinning faster now.

"Get Marta," he barked at the air. He wheeled himself backward, away from the mess, away from her.

She closed her eyes. And passed out.

She woke up to a throbbing headache and a dry mouth.

The penthouse was silent. The digital clock on the wall said 3:00 AM.

She sat up. She was still on the sofa, but someone had thrown a blanket over her. The mess on the floor was gone.

She remembered. The kiss. The vomit.

Shame washed over her, hot and prickly.

But underneath the shame, clarity returned.

Augustine was probably in the shower, or burning his clothes. The guards were likely on the perimeter, assuming she was out cold for the night.

This was it.

She crept to the kitchen, her movements silent. Her art appraisal work had taught her to observe details others missed. She'd noticed the sweep pattern of a security camera in the hall earlier, a four-second blind spot near the service corridor. She'd also seen where Marta placed her keycard-an older model, likely with less security clearance-in a bowl by the fruit basket.

She found it.

She also found a spare uniform in the laundry room off the kitchen. She changed out of the ruined Valentino dress.

She took the service elevator down. Her heart hammered against her ribs with every floor that passed. She timed her exit from the elevator to coincide with the camera's blind spot.

Ding.

The basement. Loading dock.

The night guard was in his booth, but his back was turned, focused on a small television. She needed a diversion. She spotted a stack of empty metal trays. With a flick of her wrist, she sent one clattering to the concrete floor a good twenty feet away from the exit.

The guard jumped, startled, and moved toward the sound.

She was out.

She hailed a cab on 5th Avenue.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

She didn't say the police station. The police were bought.

"The Plaza Hotel," she said.

The party would still be going. These galas went until dawn.

She had to know. She had to look Grant in the eye and hear him say it.

She got into the Plaza through the catering entrance, blending in with a group of servers taking a smoke break. She grabbed a tray of empty champagne flutes from a rack.

She walked into the ballroom.

It was a sea of diamonds and tuxedos.

And there they were. On the stage. Grant was holding a microphone, toasting the crowd. Yvonne was beaming by his side.

"...and to new beginnings," Grant was saying. "To finding true partners."

The crowd applauded.

She dropped the tray.

Smash.

The sound of breaking crystal cut through the applause like a gunshot.

Silence rippled through the room. Heads turned.

She walked toward the stage. Her maid's uniform was ill-fitting, her hair was a mess, but she didn't care.

"Grant!" she shouted.

Grant froze. His face went pale.

"Aislinn?" he whispered into the mic.

"You coward," she said, climbing the stairs to the stage. "You stole my life. You stole my dress."

She stood in front of Yvonne. She looked terrified.

"And you," she said. "You sister-stealing leech."

She pulled her hand back.

Slap.

She hit her with everything she had. The sound was amplified by the microphone Grant was still holding.

"That," she said, her voice shaking, "was for my father."