Annabel locked the bathroom door. She turned the shower on as hot as it would go.

She stood under the scalding water for thirty minutes. She scrubbed her skin, trying to wash away the memory of the contract, the check, the cold eyes of her mother-in-law.

She turned off the water and dried off. She reached for the modest silk nightgown Gregorio had thrown at her.

A sharp knock echoed from the heavy oak bedroom door out in the hallway. "Sir, Ma'am," a maid's voice called nervously through the thick wood. "Madam Eleonora sent this up. She insists you wear it tonight."

Gregorio let out a harsh breath, stalking over to the door. He slid the deadbolt back and opened the door just a fraction of an inch. He snatched the flat velvet box from the trembling maid and slammed the heavy door shut, sliding the deadbolt back into place. He tossed the box onto the mattress.

Annabel opened the box.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Inside lay a set of custom black lace lingerie. It consisted of a few thin straps and practically transparent fabric. It left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Gregorio was leaning against the headboard of the bed. He saw the lingerie in her hands and let out a harsh sneer.

"My mother is desperate," he mocked. "Resorting to the tactics of a cheap brothel to get a grandson."

Annabel's face burned with intense heat. She threw the box onto the bed. "I'm not wearing this. It's degrading."

Out in the hallway, the sharp click-clack of Eleonora's heels echoed on the hardwood floor. The footsteps stopped right outside their door.

"Is everything satisfactory in there?" Eleonora's voice rang out, loud and probing.

Gregorio's expression hardened. He knew his mother. If she suspected they weren't consummating the marriage, she would direct all her wrath toward Kiersten.

He crossed the room in three long strides. He grabbed the black lace from the box and shoved it into Annabel's hands.

"Put it on," he hissed, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "Do not give her an excuse to ruin Kiersten's life."

The mention of Kiersten was a knife twisting in Annabel's chest. She swallowed her tears, stepped back into the bathroom, and shut the door.

Five minutes later, the door slowly opened.

Annabel walked out. She kept her head down, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, trying desperately to cover herself.

The black lace starkly contrasted with her pale skin. The sheer fabric clung to her curves, exposing the dark, angry bruises he had left on her thighs the night before.

Gregorio looked up.

His eyes locked onto her body. His entire frame went completely rigid. The air in the room seemed to evaporate.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His breathing hitched, turning shallow and rapid.

He violently tore his gaze away and stared at the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hands clenching into tight fists at his sides.

"You disgust me," he spat, his voice shaking slightly. He used the cruelty to mask the intense physical reaction tearing through his body. "I only want Kiersten. Looking at a woman who sells her body for money makes me sick."

Annabel's eyes filled with hot tears. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

"Then turn around," she whispered, her voice cracking.

She walked quickly to the far side of the bed. She climbed in and pulled the heavy duvet all the way up to her chin, turning her back to him.

Gregorio reached out and snapped off the main light. Only a dim, amber wall sconce remained.

He climbed into the other side of the bed.

They lay back-to-back. A foot of empty space separated them.

In the dark, Gregorio's hand gripped the bedsheet. He squeezed the fabric until his knuckles ached, fighting the agonizing, burning need to reach across the mattress and pull her against him.

The rhythmic crashing of the ocean waves against the cliffs echoed in the silent bedroom.

It was 3:00 AM. The temperature in the room had dropped significantly.

Annabel shivered in her sleep. Driven by pure, unconscious instinct, she rolled over, seeking warmth.

Her hand slipped across the sheets. Her palm landed flat against the bare, scorching hot skin of Gregorio's chest.

Gregorio wasn't asleep. He hadn't slept a single minute.

The soft touch of her hand was like a match dropping into a pool of gasoline.

His control snapped.

He flipped over instantly. His heavy body pinned her to the mattress.

Annabel woke up with a gasp. Her eyes flew open in terror. She pushed her hands against his broad shoulders, trying to shove him off.

Gregorio's eyes were pitch black in the dim light. The restraint he had fought for hours was completely gone, replaced by a raw, consuming hunger.

"You asked for this," he growled against her mouth.

He crushed his lips against hers, swallowing her protests. His hands were rough, tearing the fragile black lace until it ripped away completely.

Annabel cried out, tears spilling down her cheeks. "The contract... you said..."

He didn't let her finish. He silenced her with another bruising kiss. His body took over, driven by a primal, undeniable attraction that his mind violently refused to accept.

The encounter was punishing, desperate, and entirely out of control. It lasted until the first light of dawn crept through the curtains.

When Annabel woke up again, the sun was bright.

Her entire body felt like it had been beaten. Her muscles screamed as she sat up.

The space beside her was cold. Gregorio was gone.

She looked down at her skin. The marks from last night were darker, more extensive. A wave of profound sadness washed over her.

She forced herself out of bed. She showered, put on a thick, high-necked cashmere sweater to hide the bruises, and walked downstairs.

She stepped out onto the sunlit patio.

Eleonora was sitting at the wrought-iron table, reading the Wall Street Journal. She looked up at Annabel and smiled. It was a terrifying, victorious smile.

Gregorio sat at the opposite end of the table. He was staring at his iPad. As Annabel approached, his shoulders stiffened. He didn't look up.

Annabel sat down.

A private chef immediately placed a large ceramic bowl in front of her.

The smell hit her instantly. It was pungent and earthy. The bowl was filled with a thick, dark green soup made of maca root, heavy folic acid greens, and raw organic liver.

"Eat it all," Eleonora commanded, staring directly at Annabel's flat stomach. "It increases fertility. Every drop."

Annabel's stomach violently revolted. The smell made her gag. Her hand shook as she picked up the silver spoon.

She looked at Gregorio. She silently begged him to say something. To stop this humiliation.

Gregorio finally looked up. His eyes met hers for a split second. A flash of intense guilt crossed his face, quickly buried under a mask of cold indifference.

"Don't waste my mother's efforts," he said flatly. He looked back down at his screen.

Annabel's heart shattered. The last shred of hope died. She was nothing to him but a breeding mare.

She closed her eyes, held her breath, and forced the foul-tasting liquid down her throat.

Gregorio watched her swallow from the corner of his eye. His chest tightened painfully. He couldn't stand it anymore.

He shoved his chair back. It screeched against the stone floor.

"There's an emergency at the firm," he announced abruptly, grabbing his jacket. "I have to fly back to Manhattan right now."

Annabel wiped her mouth with a napkin. She stood up, her face completely blank, and followed him to the helicopter like a hollow shell.

Three days passed.

Gregorio hadn't returned to the penthouse. He used work as an excuse, sleeping at the corporate suites.

Annabel sat on the living room sofa, staring at the blank television screen.

Her phone buzzed. It was an encrypted message from Kiersten.

Come to my studio in Chelsea immediately. We need to fulfill the 'additional terms' of our agreement.

A second message arrived a second later. It was a photo of her mother's room at Oakwood, taken from the hallway outside the restricted wing. Below it was a single chilling line: The check hasn't cleared yet. I can still stop it.

Annabel's stomach twisted into a hard knot. Gregorio had already secured her mother's medical care, but he knew nothing of the hidden loan sharks Kiersten's money was supposed to silence. If Kiersten canceled the check before it cleared, those men would find her mother no matter how thick the walls of Oakwood were. She had no leverage that could stop that.

She went to the closet, pulled on a long trench coat, and ordered a car.

The studio was located in a massive, industrial loft in Chelsea.

Annabel pushed the heavy metal door open. The air inside was thick and suffocating. It smelled strongly of oil paint, turpentine, and a heavy, distinct sandalwood incense.

Kiersten stood in the center of the room, wearing a paint-splattered apron. A massive, blank canvas sat on an easel in front of her.

When she saw Annabel, Kiersten's face morphed into an expression of tortured artistic agony.

"I have to finish my final avant-garde project," Kiersten sighed, touching her forehead. "Before I retire to raise the baby. I need you to model for me."

"I'm not doing that," Annabel said immediately, backing toward the door.

Kiersten's eyes hardened. "Then I cancel the check. The men who want your father's blood will find your mother. Oakwood's security won't stop them if the debt isn't paid."

Annabel stopped. Her breathing turned shallow.

Kiersten walked over to a table and picked up a legal document. "It's a Non-Disclosure Agreement. The painting will only be shown in private, elite circles in Europe. It will never be published. If I leak it, I owe you one hundred million dollars."

Annabel read the penalty clause. She knew, deep down, that this piece of paper was practically worthless in the real world. Against Kiersten's army of corporate lawyers, she had absolutely zero chance of ever enforcing a hundred-million-dollar penalty. But with her mother's safety hanging by a thread, this hollow document was the only fragile straw she could grasp. The massive financial threat gave her a desperate, false sense of security. She slowly nodded.

"Take off your clothes," Kiersten ordered. "Stand under the spotlight."

Annabel's fingers trembled as she unbuttoned her trench coat. She let it fall to the floor. She stripped off her sweater and her jeans.

The cold air of the loft hit her bare skin. She squeezed her eyes shut, crossing her arms over her chest. Tears of pure humiliation leaked from her eyes.

Kiersten stared at Annabel's body. She saw the fading bruises Gregorio had left on her skin. A flash of psychotic jealousy contorted Kiersten's face.

"Drop your arms," Kiersten snapped. "Arch your back. Look at the floor."

For three agonizing hours, Annabel stood frozen under the harsh lights. Every stroke of Kiersten's brush felt like a physical violation, stripping away her dignity layer by layer.

Finally, Kiersten threw her brush down. She grabbed a large black cloth and threw it over the canvas, hiding the painting completely.

"We're done," Kiersten said, wiping her hands. "You were a perfect muse."

Annabel scrambled to put her clothes back on. She didn't say a word. She grabbed her bag and practically ran out of the loft, desperate to escape the cloying smell of sandalwood.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Kiersten pulled out her phone.

She dialed a number.

"Page Six?" Kiersten smiled, her voice dripping with malice. "I have an exclusive for you. A very... revealing portrait of the new Mrs. Harrison."

She walked over to the easel and pulled the black cloth down.

The painting wasn't art. It was a grotesque, hyper-sexualized distortion of Annabel's body, designed to make her look completely depraved.

The trap was set.