Sunlight hit Isa's eyelids like a physical blow.

She groaned, her neck stiff from sleeping at an awkward angle. The adrenaline crash from last night was worse than any hangover. She realized immediately she wasn't in her own bed.

She was still on the velvet chaise lounge, but a heavy, black men's dress shirt had been draped over her shivering shoulders like a blanket.

Memory returned in a violent rush. The live stream. The escape. The dark room.

The man.

She sat up so fast the room spun. She pulled the oversized black shirt tighter around her wrinkled red silk dress.

The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of sandalwood soap.

Gerhardt Phillips walked out.

He was wearing a towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the hair on his chest, trailing down over defined abs to the V-line disappearing beneath the white terry cloth.

He looked nothing like the shivering, delirious wreck from last night. He looked like a predator who had just finished a meal.

He stopped when he saw her awake. His eyes were clear, cold, and calculating. He looked at her not as a woman, but as a specimen in a jar.

"You're awake," he said. His voice was devoid of emotion.

She clutched the black shirt tighter, a useless shield. "Mr. Phillips. Thank you for the... blanket. But I can explain-"

He walked to the nightstand, picked up a document, and tossed it onto the coffee table in front of her.

"Non-Disclosure Agreement," he said. "Fill in the amount on the second page. Then get out."

She looked down at the paper. It was standard legal boilerplate, but the blank line for the settlement figure was an insult. He thought she was a whore. Or worse, a blackmailer.

"If you breathe a word about last night," he continued, turning to the mirror to adjust his wet hair, "about the fact that I didn't throw you off the balcony the moment you touched me... I will bury you."

He wasn't worried about a sex scandal. He was worried about his weakness being exposed. The great Gerhardt Phillips, cured of his famous haphephobia by a disgraced socialite. It made him look vulnerable.

Isa felt a spark of anger ignite in her chest. It burned away the fear.

She picked up the document. "You think you can buy me?"

"Everyone has a price, Ms. Faulkner. Especially one who just nuked her own engagement and was likely disowned by breakfast."

He knew. Of course he knew.

She took the paper in both hands. She didn't look at the amount line. She ripped the document down the middle. Then again. And again.

She let the confetti rain down on his pristine rug.

Gerhardt turned slowly. His jaw tightened. "Greedy?"

She stood up, her bare feet sinking into the carpet. She drew herself up to her full five-foot-nine height. "I'm not a prostitute, Mr. Phillips. And I'm not a blackmailer. Last night, you were the one holding onto me when I tripped. I stayed because the press trapped me, not to extort you. That's false imprisonment, not a service."

For a second, she thought he might hit her. A flicker of something-surprise?-crossed his face.

The doorbell rang. A sharp, insistent sound.

"Sir!" A muffled voice came from the hallway. "Dowager Helena is here. And the press is swarming the lobby asking about a woman coming up to your floor!"

Isa's blood ran cold. If she was seen leaving Gerhardt Phillips' penthouse the morning after her engagement imploded, the narrative wouldn't be 'brave victim.' It would be 'slut.'

Gerhardt looked at the door, then back at her. The calculation in his eyes shifted.

He grabbed a remote and pressed a button. The heavy curtains slid open, flooding the room with light.

He walked toward her.

She stepped back, hitting the edge of the chaise lounge. "What are you doing?"

"Improvising," he muttered.

He reached out. She flinched, expecting violence.

His hand landed on her bare shoulder. His fingers were cool, his palm dry. He paused, waiting. She saw him hold his breath, waiting for the nausea, the panic.

Nothing happened.

His thumb brushed her collarbone. A strange, electric jolt went through her. Not fear. Something else.

"Still works," he whispered to himself.

The bedroom door burst open.

"Gerhardt! I demand to know why security is-"

An elderly woman with hair like spun silver and a cane that looked like a weapon stood in the doorway. Behind her were two burly bodyguards.

Dowager Helena Phillips. The matriarch.

She stopped dead. Her eyes went from Gerhardt's hand on Isa's shoulder to her wrinkled red dress, then to the torn paper on the floor.

Gerhardt didn't pull away. He stepped in front of her, shielding her slightly. "Grandmother. You're interrupting."

Helena's eyes narrowed. She peered at Isa, recognition dawning. "The Faulkner girl? The one who put her fiancé's infidelity on Instagram Live?"

Isa wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.

"She has spirit," Helena said, a slow smile spreading across her face. "And she's in your room. Alive. Touching you."

"Barely," Gerhardt drawled.

Helena tapped her cane on the floor. "Excellent. The board is meeting on Monday. They want to discuss your... stability. The rumors about your 'condition' are hurting the stock. A wife would silence them. Marry her."

"Excuse me?" Isa choked out.

"Marry her, Gerhardt," Helena commanded, turning to leave. "Or I freeze your ten percent. And fix her dress. She looks like a train wreck."

The door clicked shut.

Gerhardt dropped his hand from Isa's shoulder instantly. He looked at her, the cold mask back in place.

"Well," he said, "it seems the price just went up."

The rain in New York doesn't wash things clean; it just makes the grime slicker.

Isa stood on the sidewalk outside the Faulkner estate, water soaking through her blouse. Her suitcase-the only thing she had left-sat in a puddle next to her.

Twenty minutes ago, her father, Boyce Faulkner, had slapped her. Her ear was still ringing.

"You ungrateful bitch! You tanked the merger with Holden's family!"

Kylee had sat on the sofa, filing her nails, hiding a smile behind her hand. "Don't worry, Daddy. I can take over Isa's board seat. I'm sure Holden needs a shoulder to cry on."

Isa had walked out before he could hit her again. She took nothing but her clothes and the one thing that mattered: a broken pearl bracelet wrapped in a silk handkerchief. Her mother's.

She shivered, hugging her arms around herself. She had no cards. Her accounts were frozen. Her friends weren't answering.

A sleek black car glided to the curb, cutting through the rain like a shark. A Maybach.

The rear window rolled down.

Gerhardt Phillips sat in the shadows. He looked dry, warm, and impossibly expensive. He was reading a file on a tablet. He didn't look up.

"Get in," he said.

"I'm wet," Isa said, her teeth chattering. "I'll ruin your leather."

"The leather is replaceable. My patience isn't."

The door clicked open automatically.

She hesitated. Getting into that car was admitting defeat. It was accepting that she had nowhere else to go.

But the cold was seeping into her bones. She threw her suitcase into the trunk and slid into the backseat.

The warmth of the car hit her instantly. It smelled of him-cedar and ice.

"Sterling," Gerhardt said to the driver. "Drive."

The partition slid up, sealing them off.

Gerhardt handed her a towel. A thick, white, fluffy thing that probably cost more than her car. "Dry your hair. You're dripping on the upholstery."

She rubbed the towel over her head aggressively. "If you're here to offer me money to go away, save it. I tore up your check, remember?"

"I remember." He finally looked at her. His eyes scanned her face, lingering on the red mark on her cheek where Boyce had struck her. His jaw tightened, just a fraction. "Who did that?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters if you're going to be my wife. I can't have damaged goods walking down the aisle."

Isa froze, the towel halfway down her hair. "Your grandmother was serious?"

"Helena is always serious when it involves the family trust." He tapped the tablet. "I need a wife to secure my position as CEO. The board thinks I'm... volatile. A wife stabilizes the image."

"And what do I get?" she asked, dropping the towel. "Besides the honor of being your nursemaid?"

"Protection," he said simply. "Access. Money. And revenge."

He turned the tablet toward her. It showed a live feed of the Faulkner stock price plummeting.

"You want to hurt them," Gerhardt said softly. "Boyce. Kylee. Holden. You want to burn their little kingdom to the ground."

He was right. God, he was right.

"I can give you the matches, Isa. And the gasoline."

She looked at him. Really looked at him. He was offering her a deal with the devil. But right now, the devil was the only one offering her a seat at the table.

"I have conditions," she said, her voice steadying.

"Name them."

"I want access to the Phillips logistical network." (She needed it for Aeon Group, but he didn't need to know that). "And I want complete autonomy over my schedule."

"Done," he said, bored.

"And," she leaned in, "I want fifty percent of the Faulkner Group shares once we acquire them."

Gerhardt raised an eyebrow. "Greedy."

"You said it yourself. Everyone has a price."

He extended his hand. For a moment, she stared at it. The hand that shouldn't be able to touch anyone.

She reached out and shook it. His skin was warm. His grip was firm.

"Deal," he said. "Welcome to hell, Mrs. Phillips."

"We're not going to the hotel," Isa said as the car bypassed the turn for the Pierre.

"No," Gerhardt replied, not looking up from his phone. "We're going to Teterboro. The jet is waiting."

"Jet? Where are we going?"

"Las Vegas."

Isa blinked. "You're joking. A drive-thru wedding?"

"New York has a twenty-four-hour waiting period. I don't have twenty-four hours. The board meets Monday morning."

Two hours later, they were at 40,000 feet. The interior of the Gulfstream was cream and gold. A team of three lawyers sat on one side of the table. Isa sat on the other, a fresh change of clothes-a white power suit provided by his assistant-draped over her frame.

A document the size of a phone book landed in front of her.

"The Prenuptial Agreement," the lead lawyer, a weasel-faced man named Sterling, announced. "Standard terms. In the event of divorce, you leave with what you came with. Which, currently, is a suitcase of wet clothes."

Isa opened the document. She pulled a red pen from the holder.

"Clause 4.2," she said, circling a paragraph. "Infidelity. If he cheats, the NDA is void, and I get twenty percent of his liquid assets."

Sterling scoffed. "Mr. Phillips does not cheat."

"Then it shouldn't be a problem to sign it," she countered, flipping the page. "Clause 12. Section B. 'Wifely Duties'." She looked up at Gerhardt. "Define duties."

Gerhardt signaled the lawyers to leave. They filed out into the cockpit cabin, looking offended.

"Sleep," Gerhardt said.

"Excuse me?"

"You are required to sleep in my bed. Every night."

Isa felt her face heat up. "I'm not a sex doll, Gerhardt. If you want sex, that's a separate negotiation."

He looked at her with a mix of amusement and exhaustion. "Not sex, Isa. Sleep. Actual sleep. Unconsciousness."

He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "I have... difficulty sleeping. Last night, with you, was the first time in ten years I slept more than two hours without medication. You are a biological anomaly. My anchor."

Isa stared at him. "You want me to be your teddy bear."

"Call it what you want. But if you aren't in the bed, the deal is off."

She tapped the pen against her chin. This was bizarre. But it was also leverage.

"Fine," she said. "But I have one more addition."

"Go on."

"The Phillips Auction House. I know you have a private vault of unlisted items. I want first right of refusal on any items originating from the Burke estate."

Gerhardt's eyes narrowed slightly. "Burke? Your mother's family?"

"Yes."

"Sentimental?"

"Something like that."

"Fine." He signed the last page and slid it to her.

They landed in Vegas at sunset. They went straight to a chapel off the strip. It wasn't the Elvis one, thank god, but it was sterile and smelled of lilies and desperation.

The officiant droned on. They said "I do" like they were agreeing to a business merger.

As soon as they signed the license, Gerhardt's phone buzzed.

"It's Helena," he said. He hit the video call button.

His face transformed instantly. The cold mask melted into a look of adoration that was terrifyingly convincing. He pulled her into his side.

"Grandmother," he beamed. "We did it. Isa couldn't wait."

Isa forced a smile, leaning her head on his shoulder. "Hi, Helena. I'm just so happy."

"Let me see the ring," Helena demanded from the screen.

Isa froze. They didn't have rings.

Gerhardt didn't miss a beat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. He flipped it open.

Inside sat a pink diamond the size of a quail egg.

He slid it onto her finger. It fit perfectly.

"Beautiful," Helena crooned. "Welcome to the family, dear. Try to survive."

The call ended. Gerhardt dropped his arm immediately.

"Nice acting," he muttered.

Isa looked down at the ring. It was heavy. It felt like a shackle.

"Whose was this?" she asked.

"My mother's," he said, walking toward the exit. "She died wearing it. Don't lose it."