The heavy door of the Maybach slammed shut. The chaotic flashing lights and screaming reporters were instantly cut off.

Gregorio shoved Annabel away.

She hit the opposite door, her shoulder colliding with the armrest. She gasped, grabbing her arm.

Gregorio didn't look at her. He reached into the center console, pulled out an antibacterial wipe, and scrubbed his mouth. He rubbed the skin until it turned red.

Annabel turned her face toward the tinted window. Her chest heaved. The taste of him still lingered on her bruised lip. She stared at the blurry streetlights of Manhattan, forcing herself to breathe slowly.

Up front, Gus pressed the button. The thick, soundproof partition slid up, locking them in complete isolation.

Gregorio ripped his bowtie loose. He tore the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt open. His breathing filled the quiet cabin. It was ragged. Heavy.

Annabel glanced at him.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. His face was flushed, the veins in his neck bulging. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands gripping his knees so hard his knuckles were stark white.

"Are you sick?" Annabel asked. Her voice was barely a whisper.

Gregorio's head snapped toward her.

His eyes were bloodshot. The pupils were blown wide, swallowing the dark irises. He looked like a wild animal cornered in a cage.

"Shut up," he growled. His voice was a harsh, guttural scrape.

The car descended into the underground parking garage of their building. The tires squealed as Gus brought the Maybach to an abrupt halt.

Gregorio threw the door open before the car fully stopped. He stumbled out. His legs seemed to give way.

Annabel scrambled out after him. Without thinking, she reached out and grabbed his bicep to steady him.

Gregorio reacted instantly. He twisted, his large hand clamping down on her wrist like a steel vise. The bones in her arm ground together.

"Let go," Annabel gasped, trying to pull back.

He didn't. He dragged her toward the private elevator. His grip was agonizing. He swiped his keycard, and the metal doors slid open. He pulled her inside and hit the button for the penthouse.

The doors closed.

The confined space trapped the heat rolling off his body. He smelled of expensive cologne, sweat, and something sharp and metallic.

Gregorio slammed her against the cold steel wall of the elevator.

The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs. He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand. His chest pressed flush against hers.

His breath burned against the sensitive skin of her neck.

"Gregorio," Annabel panicked. Her heart hammered against her ribs. "Stop. The contract. You said we wouldn't-"

"You belong to me," he snarled against her collarbone. His teeth grazed her skin.

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open to the dark penthouse living room.

Gregorio didn't let her walk. He scooped her up, his arm tight under her knees, and carried her out. He threw her onto the massive leather sofa.

Annabel bounced against the cushions. She scrambled backward, but he was already over her.

He grabbed the neckline of the red Oscar de la Renta gown. He pulled.

The thick silk ripped. The sound of tearing fabric echoed in the empty room. The cold air hit her bare skin.

Annabel raised her hand to slap him.

He caught her wrist mid-air. He pinned both her arms above her head, his weight settling over her hips, trapping her completely.

"You took the money," he sneered, his hot breath fanning her face. "You sold yourself to my family. This is what you're paid for."

The words hit her like a physical blow. The fifty million dollar debt her father left behind flashed in her mind. The hospital bills. The threats.

Her struggles ceased. Her body went entirely rigid.

She turned her head to the side. She squeezed her eyes shut. A single, hot tear leaked from her lashes and rolled into her hair.

Gregorio didn't hesitate. The drug in his system had eradicated every ounce of his control.

Pain ripped through her. Annabel bit down on the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper. She didn't make a sound.

The hours dragged on. The drug kept him relentless.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Manhattan skyline glittered, indifferent to the destruction happening on the leather sofa.

Eventually, the frantic pace slowed. Gregorio collapsed beside her. His chest heaved as his breathing evened out. Within minutes, he was dead asleep, his brow still deeply furrowed.

Annabel lay there. Her entire body throbbed. Her skin was covered in dark, angry bruises.

She slowly pushed herself up. Her muscles screamed in protest. She reached down with trembling fingers and picked up the torn, ruined pieces of the red dress. She pulled the fabric over her chest, shivering violently in the cold air.

The morning sun sliced through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains.

Annabel opened her eyes. A sluggish confusion dragged at her mind—the last solid memory she could grasp was the cold bite of the living room leather sofa, the weight of his body trapping her against the cushions. But she was lying in the center of the massive king-sized bed in the master bedroom. Fragments surfaced through the fog: strong arms lifting her in the dark, the low rumble of a voice she knew too well murmuring something she could not catch, the sinking softness of the mattress swallowing her whole. Then nothing.

She tried to sit up. A sharp pain shot up her spine. Her thighs ached with a dull, heavy throb. She looked to her left. The sheets were rumpled, but the space was empty. Gregorio was gone.

She dragged herself out of bed. She found a thick silk robe draped over a chair and pulled it tightly around her bruised body. Her throat was parched. She needed ice water.

She opened the bedroom door and stepped into the long hallway.

Angry voices echoed from the study at the far end.

Annabel froze. She pressed her bare feet into the thick carpet, moving silently toward the partially open door.

She peeked through the narrow crack.

Kiersten was sitting on the floor. Her knees were pulled up to her chest. Tears streamed down her flawless face, ruining her makeup.

Gregorio stood over her. His face was a mask of pure rage. He slammed a thick manila folder onto the mahogany desk.

"A rush chemical analysis," Gregorio yelled. The veins in his neck stood out. "Dorian's team tested the residue in the glass I drank from last night. You slipped a synthetic aphrodisiac into my drink at the party."

Annabel stopped breathing. Her stomach dropped. The drug. It wasn't him. It was a trap.

Kiersten scrambled forward on her knees. She grabbed the fabric of Gregorio's tailored trousers. Her knuckles were white.

"I was terrified, Greg!" Kiersten sobbed, her voice cracking. "I saw the way you looked at her on the red carpet. I was losing my mind. I just wanted you to come to me. I wanted you to need me."

Gregorio ripped his leg away. Kiersten fell forward onto her hands.

"You drugged me," Gregorio said. His voice dropped to a lethal, quiet register. "It makes me sick to look at you right now."

He turned on his heel and marched toward the door.

Annabel panicked. She spun around and ducked into the narrow utility closet just outside the study. She pulled the louvered door shut, holding her breath in the dark.

Gregorio stormed past the closet. His heavy footsteps faded down the hall, followed by the ding of the private elevator.

Annabel waited ten seconds. She pushed the closet door open and stepped out.

The study door swung wide open.

Kiersten stood in the doorway.

The tears were gone. Her face was completely dry. Her posture was perfectly straight.

Kiersten looked at Annabel. Her eyes dropped to the collar of Annabel's silk robe. The fabric had slipped, exposing a dark purple bruise on Annabel's collarbone.

Kiersten's lips curved into a slow, chilling smirk. There was no embarrassment. No shame. Only pure, calculated malice.

She didn't say a single word. She turned, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor, and walked to the guest elevator. The doors closed behind her.

A cold sweat broke out across the back of Annabel's neck.

"Mrs. Harrison."

Annabel jumped. Maura was standing at the end of the hall.

The housekeeper walked forward and held out a small silver tray. On it sat a thick, black envelope. The edges were stamped with gold foil. There was no postage.

"A courier just dropped this off for you," Maura said flatly.

Annabel picked up the envelope. A heavy, distinct scent of expensive sandalwood hit her nose.

She tore the flap open. Inside was a heavy cardstock invitation to a private dining room at Le Bernardin.

A small, typed note was clipped to the back: If you want to permanently solve your mother's medical bills, meet me at 3:00 PM.

The initials at the bottom were K.J.

Annabel stared at the letters. Her fingers gripped the card so tightly it bent. She had no money. She had no power. She had no choice.

At ten minutes to three, Annabel stepped out of a yellow cab onto the busy Manhattan sidewalk. The imposing facade of Le Bernardin loomed in front of her.

She walked through the revolving doors. The maitre d' approached immediately.

Annabel pulled the black and gold invitation from her pocket.

The man's demeanor shifted to absolute deference. "Right this way, ma'am."

He led her past the crowded main dining room, down a dimly lit corridor lined with rare wine bottles, and stopped at a heavy, soundproof door. He opened it and stepped back.

Annabel walked in. The door clicked shut behind her, cutting off the ambient noise of the restaurant instantly.

Kiersten sat at the head of a polished mahogany table. She held a crystal flute of vintage champagne.

"Sit," Kiersten said, gesturing to the chair opposite her.

Annabel didn't move. "What do you want?"

Kiersten set the glass down. Her eyes filled with tears. The transition was so fast, so flawless, it made Annabel's skin crawl.

Kiersten reached into her Birkin bag. She pulled out a thick medical file stamped with the logo of Johns Hopkins Hospital. She slid it across the smooth table.

"Read it," Kiersten whispered, her voice trembling.

Annabel looked down. The top page was a diagnostic report. Severe Congenital Endometriosis. Complete Infertility.

"I can never have children," Kiersten sobbed, covering her face with her hands. "The Harrison family trust dictates that Gregorio must produce a biological heir within a year of marriage, or he loses his seat on the board. His mother hates me. She would never let him marry a barren woman."

Annabel stared at the medical terms. A tiny, involuntary pang of sympathy tightened her chest.

Kiersten wiped her eyes and pulled out a second document. It was a stack of legal paper, fifty pages thick.

She placed it next to the medical file. On top of the contract, she laid a cashier's check from Chase Bank. It was already signed.

The amount was fifty million dollars.

"You slept with him last night," Kiersten said, her voice suddenly steady. "If you are pregnant, you will carry the child to term. You will sign away all parental rights. I will raise the baby as my own. And you will take this money and disappear."

Annabel's jaw dropped. Her lungs stopped working. "You're insane."

She turned to leave.

"Your father's loan sharks are visiting your mother's hospital room tonight," Kiersten said to her back.

Annabel froze. Her blood ran cold. The marriage contract had already wiped out her father's debt, she knew that. But this was different. This was the underbelly her father had kept hidden from everyone—the private gambling markers, the unregistered lenders who operated outside the banks, the kind who did not care about legal judgments or marriage settlements. The kind who would hurt her mother just to send a message.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out. It was a text from an unknown number. Attached was a close-up photo of her mother's hospital room door, the room number clearly visible. Below it was a simple, chilling text: We know exactly where she is. We're visiting tonight.

The phone slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the table.

Her knees gave out. She collapsed into the chair. Her stomach violently cramped.

She looked at the check. Fifty million. It would pay off the underground debts. It would move her mother to a secure, undisclosed facility. It would save her mother's life.

Annabel picked up the heavy Montblanc pen resting beside the contract. Her hand shook so violently she could barely grip the metal. She flipped through the pages, signing her name on every single line.

Kiersten smiled. She pulled the contract back and pushed the check forward.

Annabel shoved the check into her coat pocket. She stood up, her legs feeling like lead, and practically ran out of the room.

She hurried down the wine corridor. She kept her head down, desperate to reach the fresh air outside.

She pushed through the archway into the main lobby.

She slammed hard into a solid wall of muscle.

A sharp, familiar scent of cedar and expensive wool hit her face.

Annabel gasped and stumbled back. She looked up.

Gregorio stood there. His dark eyes were wide with surprise, then instantly narrowed into a lethal glare.

Standing next to him was Dorian Martin, his closest friend and a top-tier medical researcher.

Gregorio didn't look at Annabel. His gaze shot over her head, staring straight down the corridor she had just exited.

Kiersten was walking out of the shadows, her heels clicking on the marble floor.

Gregorio's jaw clenched. His eyes darted between Annabel's pale face and Kiersten's approaching figure.

Annabel's hand flew to her coat pocket, pressing hard against the fifty million dollar check hidden inside. Cold sweat drenched her spine.