The seat beside her remained empty for twenty minutes. When Mr. Stephens returned, he was wearing a different pair of trousers-black, casual slacks that somehow looked more expensive than the suit pants he'd ruined.

He sat down without a word. He didn't look at her. He put on a pair of noise-canceling headphones, effectively building a wall between them.

Belle wanted to apologize again, but the set of his jaw told her to save her breath. Besides, she had bigger problems.

The turbulence wasn't stopping. The pilot announced their descent into JFK, and the plane bucked like a wounded animal. Every drop sent Belle's stomach into a fresh spasm. Sweat beaded on her forehead, cold and sticky.

It wasn't just motion sickness. It was the stress, the lack of sleep, the three years of running on adrenaline and cheap coffee. Her body was staging a revolt.

Ding.

"Cabin crew, prepare for landing."

The plane banked sharply to the right. The cabin tilted.

Belle gagged. She unbuckled her seatbelt. She knew the sign was on, but if she didn't get to the bathroom right now, she was going to be sick right here.

She tried to stand up.

It was a mistake.

Her legs were water. The floor seemed to tilt away from her feet. The cabin spun in a sickening kaleidoscope of grey and beige. Black spots danced in her vision, blotting out the light.

She reached out blindly for support.

Her hand found warm fabric. An arm. A shoulder.

She didn't feel the impact, but she felt the heat. She collapsed forward, her body giving up the fight. She landed heavily against something solid and smelling of sandalwood and crisp linen. The scent was a ghost in the room, painfully familiar, stirring a memory she kept locked away. But it couldn't be. The man attached to the scent was a monster, not a savior. The thought was dismissed as quickly as it came, a fever-induced hallucination.

For a second, she was conscious enough to realize her face was pressed into the crook of a man's neck. Her breath, hot and ragged, fanned against his skin.

From the aisle, a flight attendant gasped. To anyone watching, it looked like the crazy girl in 1B had just thrown herself onto the billionaire in 2A.

Denis Stephens froze.

He felt the weight of her crash against him. He pulled his headphones down, ready to shove her off. This woman was a menace. First the milk, now this? Was she drunk? Was this some elaborate, pathetic attempt at a seduction?

He looked down.

She wasn't moving. Her skin, where it touched his neck, was burning up. He could smell her-beneath the stale plane air, she smelled of vanilla and fear.

She wasn't faking.

Denis looked at her hand, which was clutching his lapel like a lifeline. Her knuckles were white.

"Sir!" The flight attendant rushed forward, hands fluttering. "I can call security upon landing. She is clearly intoxicated."

Denis felt the girl's body shudder against him. A small, pained whimper escaped her lips.

"She's not drunk," Denis said, his voice cutting through the attendant's panic. "She's sick."

He didn't push her away. Instead, his hand moved-hesitantly at first, then firmly-to her waist. He held her there, anchoring her against the sway of the landing plane. Her waist was impossibly small under the leather jacket. She felt fragile, like a bird with hollow bones.

It was an annoying sensation. He didn't do fragile. He didn't do caretaking.

But he didn't let go.

The landing gear deployed with a mechanical thud. The plane hit the tarmac, bouncing once before settling. The reverse thrusters roared.

Through it all, Belle remained slumped against him, unconscious.

When the plane finally taxied to the gate, Denis tapped her cheek. Not gently.

"Wake up."

Belle groaned. Her eyelashes fluttered. She peeled herself off him, blinking in confusion. Her eyes were glassy. She looked at him, then at his shirt, realizing she had been using him as a pillow.

She scrambled back, hitting the armrest. "I... I didn't..."

"Is this a new hustle?" Denis asked, his tone dry. "Assault by dairy, followed by fainting?"

Belle wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked terrible. "Don't flatter yourself," she rasped. "I'm sick."

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She fumbled for it.

"Adan," she whispered into the phone. Her voice was a wreck. "Help me. I'm at the gate. I can't walk."

Denis watched her. She was trying to gather her things, but her hands were useless. She dropped her passport.

He sighed. It was a sound of pure inconvenience.

He signaled the flight attendant. "Get a wheelchair and ground crew. Now."

Belle looked up at him, surprised.

Denis stood up, buttoning his jacket. He smoothed the lapel she had crushed. He looked immaculate again, the wall re-erected.

"Try not to vomit on anyone else," he said coldly.

He grabbed his briefcase and walked away without looking back. But as he exited the jet bridge, he didn't leave immediately. He stood by the window for a fleeting second, watching as a frantic young man with tattoos ran past the gate agents toward the plane.

Only then did Denis check his watch and walk away.

Adan Hammond didn't wait for permission. He sprinted onto the plane, ignoring the protests of the ground crew. When he saw Belle slumped in the wheelchair, pale as a sheet, he swore loudly.

"What did they do to you?" he growled, scooping her up into his arms. She was lighter than he remembered.

"Home," Belle mumbled, her head lolling against his chest. "Just take me home."

"Not a chance. We're going to Lenox Hill."

The ambulance ride was a blur of sirens and potholes. Belle drifted in and out, the nausea rolling over her in waves. By the time they got her hooked up to an IV in the emergency room, she felt hollowed out.

Acute gastroenteritis. Dehydration. Exhaustion. The doctor's words floated in the air like dust motes.

Adan sat by the bed, looking like a guard dog ready to bite. "I'm going to get water," he said, squeezing her hand. "Don't move."

Belle closed her eyes. The saline drip was cold entering her vein.

She didn't hear the door open. She heard the clicking of heels.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. And then spit out."

Belle's eyes snapped open.

Flo Nichols stood at the foot of the bed. She was wearing a pink tweed Chanel suit that looked ridiculous in the sterile hospital room. Behind her were two girls Belle vaguely recognized from high school-her minions.

Flo held a fruit basket like a weapon. "We heard you were back. We didn't realize you were... indisposed."

One of the minions wrinkled her nose. " it smells like vomit in here. Is that you, Belle?"

"Get out," Belle croaked. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

Flo stepped closer, her smile widening. It didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, don't be rude. We came to support you. Word is you were throwing up all over First Class. Morning sickness?"

Belle tried to sit up, but her arms shook. "I have the flu, you idiot."

"Sure," Flo said, her voice dripping with fake sympathy. "That's what they all say. Jonas will be so disappointed. He always thought you were the 'pure' one."

Jonas. The name was a physical ache in Belle's chest.

"Don't say his name," Belle said.

"Why not?" Flo touched her own collarbone. She pulled the collar of her jacket aside slightly, revealing a fresh, dark purple bruise. A hickey. "He's mine now, Belle. We're shopping for engagement party outfits later. He's very... enthusiastic."

Belle stared at the mark. Bile rose in her throat again. Jonas, who had promised to wait. Jonas, who had written her letters for six months.

One of the minions held up a phone. Click. The flash blinded Belle.

"A souvenir," the girl giggled. "For the group chat."

"Hey!"

The roar came from the doorway. Adan dropped the water bottle. It hit the floor with a crack. He charged into the room, placing himself between Belle and the girls.

"Back off," Adan snarled. He looked ready to hit someone.

Flo took a step back, feigning terror. "Oh my god. Is this the father? He looks like a criminal."

"I said get out!" Adan yelled.

Flo adjusted her purse. "Fine. We were leaving anyway. This place is depressing." She looked at Belle over Adan's shoulder. "Welcome home, Belle. Try not to ruin everything this time."

They flounced out, heels clacking.

Adan turned to check on Belle. "Did they touch you?"

Belle shook her head. She was trembling, but not from sickness anymore. It was rage. Pure, unadulterated rage.

She looked toward the corner of the room where Adan had put her carry-on suitcase.

It was gone.

"Adan," she said sharply. "My bag."

Adan looked. The corner was empty.

"Those bitches," Adan hissed. He turned to run after them.

"No!" Belle ripped the IV tape off her hand. Pain flared, sharp and bright. Blood welled up, a red bead on her pale skin.

"Belle, what are you doing?" Adan grabbed her shoulders. "You need to finish the drip."

"They took it to check for 'evidence'," Belle said, sliding off the bed. Her legs wobbled, but she forced them to hold her weight. "They want to prove I'm pregnant to humiliate me. Let them look. There's nothing in there but dirty laundry."

She grabbed her leather jacket.

"We're not staying here," she said. Her eyes were dry, hard stones. "Take me to Stanton Manor. Now."

"You can barely stand," Adan argued.

"I don't need to stand," Belle said, walking toward the door, leaving a trail of blood drops from her hand. "I need to fight."

The private club in Midtown smelled of old money-mahogany, leather, and cigar smoke.

Denis Stephens stood in the locker room, fastening the cuffs of a fresh shirt. He looked in the mirror. His face was impassive, but there was a tightness around his eyes.

Gavin Cole, his business partner and the only person who dared to mock him, leaned against the doorframe.

"So," Gavin grinned. "I hear you got assaulted by a dairy product at thirty thousand feet."

Denis adjusted his collar. "It was an accident."

"Was she hot?"

Denis paused. He thought of the girl's eyes-wild, desperate, green. He thought of the way she felt in his arms, burning with fever.

"She was a disaster," Denis said. "A mess."

"But?"

"But nothing. Find out who she is. I want to send her the dry cleaning bill."

Gavin laughed. "You make more in a second than that suit cost. You just want to know her name."

"Do it, Gavin."

At a bistro three blocks away, Jonas Ramirez stared at his phone. His knuckles were white around his wine glass.

"Are you sure?" he asked. His voice was tight.

Flo's voice came through the speaker, breathless and teary. "I saw her, Jonas. She looked awful. And that thug she was with... he practically attacked us when we asked about the baby."

Baby.

The word echoed in Jonas's head. Belle had left three years ago. She had ghosted him. And now she was back, sick, with some tattooed guy, and possibly pregnant?

He felt a surge of possessiveness that had no right to exist. She was his Belle. The innocent, fiery girl he had fallen for. She couldn't be pregnant by someone else.

"She's at the hospital?" Jonas asked.

"No," Flo said. "She checked herself out. She's heading to the Manor. To ruin Aryana's engagement, probably."

Jonas hung up. He tossed a fifty-dollar bill on the table, ignoring the unfinished risotto.

"Where are you going?" his friend asked.

"To get answers," Jonas said, grabbing his coat.

Adan's Jeep Wrangler was old, noisy, and smelled of fast food. Belle sat in the passenger seat, her head leaning against the cool window.

"You should really go back to the hospital," Adan said, navigating the traffic toward the Queens Midtown Tunnel.

"Drive faster," Belle murmured.

"Why the rush? The necklace isn't going anywhere."

"It's not just the necklace," Belle said. She looked at her hand, where the blood had dried. "If I don't go now, Ewart will hide it. Or sell it. He knows I'm back."

Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

We have your bag. Cute underwear. - F

Belle threw the phone onto the dashboard.

In the back of the Maybach, Denis received a notification on his tablet. Gavin worked fast.

Belle Stanton. Eldest daughter of Ewart Stanton. Mother was a Harvey. Estranged for 3 years. Studied Art History in Paris. No criminal record, but a lot of speeding tickets.

Denis stared at the name. Stanton.

He knew the family. New money trying to pass as old money. Ewart was a snake. And they were about to merge with the Bryans-his cousin Carlton's future in-laws. A sudden, cold curiosity took hold.

"Driver," Denis said, his voice sharp.

"Yes, sir?"

"Change of plans. We're going to the Stanton estate on Long Island."

"Sir? That's two hours away."

"I have a... bill to deliver," Denis said, a rare, predatory smile touching his lips. "And I want to see for myself what kind of family my cousin is marrying into."

Three cars. Three different agendas. All converging on one house.