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.

Gregorio took a step forward. His tall frame completely blocked the exit. The air around him felt heavy, suffocating.

"What are you doing here?" Gregorio demanded. His voice was dangerously quiet. "Kiersten, what is this? Why did you arrange to meet my wife behind my back?"

Kiersten reached them before Annabel could speak. She slipped her arm through Gregorio's, pressing her chest against his bicep.

"Greg, don't be mad," Kiersten said softly, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "I asked her to meet me. I wanted to apologize for the misunderstanding this morning. I felt terrible."

Gregorio didn't look at Kiersten. His eyes bored into Annabel. He didn't believe a word of it.

He reached out. His large hand clamped down on Annabel's wrist. He jerked her forward, pulling her away from the lobby doors.

The sudden, violent motion caught Annabel off guard. She stumbled. The collar of her wool coat slipped off her shoulder. The silk scarf around her neck loosened and fell away.

The harsh lobby lights illuminated her bare skin.

Dark, angry purple bruises covered her collarbone and the side of her neck. The bite marks from the night before were glaringly obvious.

The lobby went dead silent.

Kiersten's fake smile vanished. Her eyes locked onto the marks, her face turning rigid.

Dorian stepped forward. His medical instincts overrode his hesitation. He frowned, his eyes scanning the bruises.

"Annabel," Dorian said, his voice serious. "Are you safe at home? If you need help, or if someone is hurting you, you can tell me."

Annabel panicked. She yanked her coat back up, her face burning with humiliation. She couldn't look at Dorian.

"I'm fine," she stammered. She needed to change the subject. Fast. "Dr. Martin, actually... I wanted to ask you about the experimental cardiac therapy you published last month. Could you look at my mother's chart?"

Dorian's expression softened. He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a sleek business card. "Of course. Call my private line anytime."

Annabel reached out to take it.

Before her fingers could touch the paper, Gregorio's hand shot out. He didn't swat the card away; instead, his large hand clamped down firmly around Annabel's wrist. With an unquestionable, bruising force, he yanked her backward, hauling her behind his broad back. He stood between her and Dorian, his chest heaving.

"I'll handle her affairs. Stay away from my wife," Gregorio snarled. The possessiveness in his voice was raw and violent.

Dorian blinked, completely taken aback by the sudden territorial aggression. "Greg, I'm just offering medical advice."

"She doesn't need your advice," Gregorio snapped. "You will take over Hilary Alston's case immediately. The Harrison family will cover every cent. Move her to the best private facility in the state by tonight."

He didn't wait for Dorian's response. He ignored Kiersten calling his name.

Gregorio gripped Annabel's arm and dragged her out the revolving doors.

He shoved her into the back of the waiting Maybach and climbed in after her. He slammed the door so hard the heavy vehicle shook.

The car sped away from the curb.

Gregorio reached out and grabbed her chin. His fingers dug into her jaw, forcing her to look at him.

"Listen to me," he said through gritted teeth. "As long as you wear my ring, you do not beg other men for help. You do not look at other men. Do you understand?"

Tears of frustration welled in Annabel's eyes. "You have no right to control how I save my mother."

Gregorio let out a harsh, mocking laugh. He pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial number.

"Transfer Hilary Alston to the Oakwood Private Sanctuary," he ordered his executive assistant. "Now. Put her under maximum security."

He hung up and tossed the phone onto the seat.

He leaned in close. His nose almost brushed hers. "Your life, and your mother's life, belong to me now. You don't make a single move without my permission."

Annabel squeezed her eyes shut. The leather seat felt like a cage. She was completely trapped.

The Maybach didn't head back to the penthouse. It drove straight to the East River helipad.

Annabel looked out the window as the car stopped. The massive blades of a black helicopter were already spinning, whipping the cold wind into a frenzy.

"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"The Hamptons," Gregorio replied coldly. He opened the door.

The roar of the engine drowned out her protests. Gregorio grabbed her hand, his grip unyielding, and pulled her toward the chopper. He practically lifted her into the cabin and strapped her into the leather seat.

The helicopter lifted off immediately.

Annabel's stomach dropped. The sudden loss of gravity made her severely nauseous. All the blood drained from her face. She gripped the armrests, her knuckles turning white.

Gregorio sat across from her, his face an unreadable mask. He reached into a compartment, pulled out a thermos, and poured a cup of hot ginger tea. He held it out to her.

Annabel stared at the cup. She turned her head away, fixing her eyes on the distant coastline of Long Island. She refused to take it.

Thirty minutes later, the helicopter touched down on the sprawling green lawn of the Astor-Harrison oceanfront estate.

A line of staff stood at attention. Gregorio took her arm again, marching her up the stone steps and into the grand foyer.

Eleonora Harrison sat on a velvet antique sofa in the main parlor. A porcelain teacup rested in her hand.

She didn't stand. Her sharp, calculating eyes swept over Annabel, dissecting her like a piece of meat.

Eleonora picked up a thick legal document from the table and tossed it onto the glass surface.

"Six months, Gregorio," Eleonora said. Her voice was sharp and aristocratic. "The board is drafting the impeachment papers. If there is no heir by the end of the fiscal year, you lose the CEO title."

She took a sip of tea. "That artist you keep parading around is a barren waste of time. I won't have the Harrison legacy end because of your foolish attachments."

Gregorio's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth, Mother."

Eleonora ignored him. She looked directly at Annabel. Her lips curled into a thin, cruel smile. "At least this one looks like she has wide hips. Good for breeding."

Annabel's stomach churned. The humiliation burned the back of her throat. She was nothing but a vessel to them.

Dinner was served at the long, imposing mahogany table. The silence in the room was suffocating.

The staff brought out course after course. Raw oysters. Venison. Thick, rich broths. Every single dish was a known aphrodisiac.

Annabel stared at her plate, her appetite completely gone.

Gregorio pushed his plate away violently. He grabbed his wine glass and drained it in one swallow, his face dark with suppressed anger.

"Go to your room," Eleonora commanded from the head of the table. "Both of you."

Gregorio stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He walked out without looking back. Annabel followed him up the grand staircase.

The butler led them to the master suite at the end of the second-floor hallway. As soon as they stepped inside, the heavy oak door slammed shut behind them.

The distinct sound of a deadbolt sliding into place echoed in the quiet room.

Annabel panicked. She ran to the door and twisted the brass handle. It wouldn't budge. She rattled it, her breathing picking up speed.

She turned around and scanned the room.

The suite was massive, but it was empty. The chaise lounges, the armchairs, the velvet sofa-everything had been removed.

In the dead center of the room sat one massive king-sized bed.

Gregorio ripped off his tie and threw it on the floor. He walked straight to the balcony doors, threw them open, and stepped out into the cold night air. He pulled a silver lighter from his pocket and lit a cigarette.

Annabel stood frozen in the middle of the room. She wrapped her arms around her stomach.

The ocean breeze blew the sheer curtains inward. The air in the room felt thick and suffocating.

Gregorio finished his cigarette. He stepped back inside, bringing the smell of tobacco and salty sea air with him.

He looked at her standing there, stiff and terrified.

He let out a cold, mocking laugh. "Relax. I have absolutely no interest in touching you."

He walked to the closet, pulled out a folded silk nightgown, and threw it at her chest.

"Go take a shower," he ordered. "And make it quick. Don't give the old woman a reason to get suspicious."