The lock clicked behind them. The sound was final. The room smelled of ylang-ylang-someone had lit candles.

Dennie walked straight to the window and ripped the curtains open. Pitch black. Rain smashed against the glass. A two-story drop.

Holmes took off his jacket and threw it on the sofa. He loosened his tie.

"Don't bother," he said. "The windows have security film. And the Dobermans are out."

She turned, putting her back to the glass. "What do you want?"

He poured two glasses of whiskey. "To talk business. Real business."

"I thought we were done. Twenty million. I leave."

"That was the old valuation," he said, walking toward her. "Now, I'm re-evaluating the asset."

He tossed his phone onto the bed. It showed a photo of Dennie entering the cyber café.

"Who are you working for?" he demanded. "Knowles? My cousin?"

Dennie froze. He thought she was a spy.

Her mind raced. Spy is better than Witness. Spies go to jail. Witnesses get executed by the cartel.

She lowered her eyes. "If I were... what would you do?"

Holmes slammed his hand against the glass next to her head. "I'd bury you in litigation until you died in a federal prison. Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Unless you give me a child. Secure my vote. Then you can go."

Dennie stared at him. "You're insane. You want a spy to mother your child?"

"It's the highest form of collateral," he sneered. "You won't betray the father of your child."

"You underestimate my survival instinct," she said.

Suddenly, the room plunged into darkness. The storm had knocked out the power.

Her body moved before she thought. She lunged. She grabbed his arm, twisting it to pin him.

But Holmes was fast. He blocked, sweeping her leg.

They crashed to the floor. She rolled, straddling him, her hands finding his throat. He bucked, flipping them over so he was on top, pinning her wrists above her head.

They froze. Breathing hard.

The backup generator kicked in. The lights blazed on.

They were tangled together on the Persian rug. His face was inches from hers. His shirt was torn. Her hair was wild.

The air between them crackled. It wasn't just violence. It was something else. Something hot and heavy.

Dennie realized their position. She shoved him off and scrambled back.

Holmes lay on the floor for a second, staring at the ceiling. Then he laughed. A breathless, dark sound.

"Well," he said, sitting up and wiping blood from his lip. "At least the physical genetics are acceptable."

Dennie locked herself in the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face. Her hands were shaking.

She could hear him outside, on the phone with Felix. Drafting a new agreement.

She walked out. Holmes was sitting on the sofa, composed, as if they hadn't just wrestled on the floor.

"New terms," he said. "Three months. You play the perfect wife. We start IVF immediately. Once the pregnancy is confirmed and the board votes, you get fifty million." He added, "The vote is next quarter. A legally binding gestational contract and a confirmed medical report of pregnancy will be enough to secure the proxy."

"Not enough," she said. "Fifty million. Cash. Offshore account. Untraceable."

He raised an eyebrow. "Why cash? Planning to run?"

"Retirement," she said. "After crossing the Wilson family, I won't be employable in this city."

"Done," he said. "But there's a condition."

"What?"

"You move into my penthouse in the city. You stay within my sight for the next ninety days."

"That wasn't in the deal!"

"Risk management," he said coldly. "I can't have a spy running loose."

Dennie ground her teeth. But then she thought of Liam. The silence. The danger. Holmes's penthouse was a fortress. It might be the safest place in New York.

"Fine," she said. "But separate bedrooms."

He laughed. "Of course. You think I want to touch you? That's what the clinic is for."

They shook hands. His skin was warm.

That night, they had to share the bed. Mrs. Higgins was likely listening at the door.

They lay stiffly, a foot of space between them.

"Who taught you to fight?" he asked into the darkness.

"When you're set to marry into a family like yours," she lied smoothly, "you can afford the best instructors. Mine was ex-Mossad, I believe. He taught me how to handle myself."

She felt him stiffen. "This instructor... where is he now?"

"To me, yes."

He turned his back to her.

Late that night, her phone vibrated under her pillow.

It was a text from a scrambled number. Liam.

Compromised. They are looking for you. Trust no one.

She stared at the screen. The blue light illuminated Holmes's sleeping face. He was the enemy. He was the jailer. And now, he was the only shield she had.