Dominick threw Aubrey down onto the massive King-size velvet bed. The heavy mattress sank deep under her weight.

Aubrey's head spun from the impact. She tried to push herself up on her elbows, but Dominick's large frame was already hovering over her.

He dropped to one knee on the edge of the mattress. His long fingers violently ripped the expensive silk tie from his neck.

Aubrey looked up at the dark, feral hunger in his eyes. A terrifying mix of fear and deep, hidden arousal coiled in her stomach.

"Dominick, you can't just fix everything like this!" she gasped, pressing both her hands flat against his hard chest to stop him.

"You started this war, Aubrey," he rasped. His voice was rough, completely unrecognizable. He grabbed both of her wrists, pinned them above her head, and pressed them deep into the pillows.

His mouth crashed down on hers again. This time, the punishment was gone. It was replaced by a suffocating, desperate need.

He reached behind her back. He found the invisible zipper of her Oscar de la Renta gown and yanked it down. The freezing air conditioning hit her bare spine.

Aubrey gasped sharply. Her entire body shivered. The humiliation of giving in fought a losing battle against her own physical reactions.

Dominick dragged his lips from her mouth, down to her jaw, and pressed hot, wet kisses into her neck.

"Tell me you don't care," he whispered cruelly against her collarbone, his teeth scraping her skin.

Aubrey bit down hard on her lower lip. She refused to say a word. Hot tears leaked from the corners of her eyes and soaked into her blonde hair.

The room was pitch black. Lightning flashed outside the windows, briefly illuminating their tangled bodies. The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.

Dominick stripped away the rest of her defenses. He was dominant, taking complete control, leaving her no space to breathe or retreat.

A sharp pain was quickly followed by a heavy, consuming heat. Aubrey gasped, her fingernails digging deep into Dominick's bare back, dragging down his skin.

Dominick let out a low, guttural groan at the scratch. He didn't slow down. He pushed harder.

It was a physical war. They were both fighting to see who would break first.

Aubrey shattered first. A broken sob tore from her throat as the overwhelming sensation pulled her under.

Hearing her cry, Dominick's rigid muscles froze for a fraction of a second. A flash of raw panic and pity crossed his eyes, though he didn't understand it.

But the possessiveness swallowed him whole again. He wrapped his arms around her tightly and buried his face in her neck.

Hours later, the storm finally broke. The only sound in the bedroom was their heavy, ragged breathing.

Aubrey's body felt like lead. She turned her back to Dominick, curled her knees to her chest, and pulled the thick duvet tightly around her shoulders.

Dominick sat up against the headboard. He lit a cigarette. The cherry burned bright red in the dark room.

Through the smoke, he looked down at Aubrey's shaking shoulders. His chest tightened painfully.

He slowly reached his hand out. He wanted to touch the tangled blonde hair spread across his pillow.

His fingers stopped an inch from her hair. His hand hovered in the air.

Logic slammed back into his brain. He pulled his hand back quickly and crushed the cigarette into the glass ashtray.

"I'll have Taylor send over a PR statement draft tomorrow," he said. His voice was back to the cold, corporate tone. "Memorize the talking points. We need our public narrative about my return to align seamlessly for the press."

Aubrey's spine went completely rigid under the blanket. The tiny bit of warmth she had felt vanished instantly, replaced by freezing ice.

She closed her eyes. Her heart felt completely dead. "Okay," she whispered to the wall.

The harsh morning sunlight sliced through the gaps in the blinds, stabbing into the dark bedroom. Aubrey woke to the faint sound of fabric moving.

She kept her eyes shut. She controlled her breathing, making it slow and even, pretending she was still asleep.

Dominick was already out of the shower. He stood in front of the floor-length mirror, buttoning a crisp, custom white shirt.

He walked into the closet and pulled out a dark gray Brunello Cucinelli suit jacket. His movements were sharp, efficient, and completely devoid of emotion.

Aubrey watched him through the slits of her eyelashes. His back was perfectly straight. The feral man from last night was completely gone.

Dominick walked over to the nightstand. He picked up the Patek Philippe watch and strapped it to his wrist. The metal clasp clicked loudly in the quiet room.

His eyes flicked down to Aubrey. He stared at her bare shoulder exposed above the duvet. The faint red marks he had left were still visible.

He stared for two seconds. Then he turned around and walked out of the bedroom without a single word.

The heavy door clicked shut. Aubrey opened her eyes. She stared at the empty room, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping her throat.

She threw the covers off and sat up. Her muscles ached, a physical reminder of how stupid she had been. She ran her hands aggressively through her tangled hair.

Her iPhone buzzed violently on the nightstand.

Aubrey grabbed it. The screen lit up with dozens of unread messages from an iMessage group chat named "Manhattan Bitch Club."

She opened the chat. The very first image was a paparazzi photo from last night. It showed Dominick gripping her waist by the Lincoln, her face looking stiff and miserable.

Right below it was a voice note from Portia Vaughn.

Aubrey tapped play. Portia's shrill voice filled the quiet bedroom. "Look at Mrs. Carrillo's face. She looks like she's going to a funeral. I heard Dominick dropped a million on Veronica last night. True love, right?"

Another socialite texted back: "Yeah, they rushed back to Fifth Avenue. Probably going home to sign the divorce papers."

Aubrey's fingers gripped the phone so hard her knuckles turned white. The humiliation chewed on her insides like battery acid.

She didn't type a reply. She flipped the phone over and threw it onto the mattress. She took a deep, shaking breath.

She refused to let those women win. She was a Middleton. She had pride.

Aubrey walked into the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast. She stood under the freezing water, scrubbing her skin until it was red, trying to wash his touch away.

She wrapped a thick robe around herself and walked out into the hallway to get coffee.

As she passed Dominick's private study, she heard his low, clipped voice drifting into the hallway. He was on an urgent call with the London branch, his tone authoritative and rushed. A minute later, he strode out rapidly, his mind clearly a million miles away as he headed straight for the private elevator. Aubrey hesitated, noticing that in his uncharacteristic haste, he hadn't pulled the heavy oak door completely shut. It was cracked open just an inch.

Dominick never left his door open. He must have been rushing to leave.

She meant to keep walking, but through that narrow gap, she saw a black Hermes briefcase sitting open on the mahogany desk.

Next to it was a stack of glossy, bound documents. The top folder had bold, black letters printed across it.

Her feet moved on their own. She pushed the door open and walked up to the desk.

The cover read: "The Obsidian - Downtown Manhattan Boutique Designer Hotel Proposal."

Aubrey's eyes locked onto the words "Designer Hotel."

She reached out. Her fingertips traced the edge of the thick paper. A sudden, violent rush of adrenaline hit her bloodstream. Her old instincts from the Rhode Island School of Design flared to life.

A crazy idea exploded in her head. If Dominick thought she was just a useless canary, she was going to rip a hole right through his corporate empire.

Aubrey held her breath. She flipped open the first page of "The Obsidian" proposal.

It was a massive commercial plan to convert an abandoned industrial warehouse in Tribeca into a luxury boutique hotel.

She skipped past the financial projections and ROI charts. She flipped straight to the architectural concept sketches at the back.

She stared at the renderings provided by some top-tier firm. It was a sea of generic glass walls and cold marble floors. Aubrey's brow furrowed in disgust.

"This is garbage," she whispered to the empty room. "It completely destroys the historical red-brick integrity of Tribeca."

She dropped the folder and ran down the hall to her own bedroom. She dug into the deepest corner of her walk-in closet and pulled out a dusty, black drafting tube.

She popped the cap off. Inside were her top-graded interior architecture portfolios from RISD.

She carried the tube back to the study and dumped the sketches onto the Persian rug. Her blood was pumping fast. She felt alive for the first time in years.

Aubrey sat cross-legged on the floor. She grabbed a graphite pencil and started sketching directly over the photocopies of Dominick's proposal.

She kept the original cast-iron pillars. She drew a massive, sunken atrium filled with natural light and raw greenery.

Two hours vanished. She was completely lost in the lines and angles, ignoring her cold coffee.

She was just shading the perspective lines of the rooftop bar when the electronic lock on the front door beeped loudly.

Aubrey's head snapped up. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Dominick was back.

She scrambled to her feet, grabbing the papers, trying to shove them back onto the desk. It was too late.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed down the hallway. They stopped right outside the study.

Dominick stood in the doorway. He had his phone pressed to his ear, listening to his assistant. He had clearly come back for a forgotten file.

His eyes moved past his phone screen. He looked at the scattered drawings on the floor, and then at the pencil gripped tightly in Aubrey's hand.

He pulled the phone away from his ear and ended the call. The air in the room turned to lead.

"What are you doing?" Dominick's eyes locked onto the heavily modified proposal in her hand. His voice was dangerously soft.

Aubrey swallowed hard. She forced her chin up and met his stare.

"I was looking at The Obsidian proposal," she said, keeping her voice steady and professional.

Dominick walked forward. He snatched the proposal right out of her hand. He stared at the chaotic pencil lines covering his million-dollar project. His jaw clenched hard.

"Who gave you permission to touch my corporate documents?" He spoke to her like she was a toddler who had just ruined a painting.

"The door was open. I saw it," Aubrey fired back, her spine straight. "And this design is terrible. It's going to ruin the commercial value of that property."

Dominick let out a harsh, mocking laugh. It echoed off the walls.

"You?" he sneered, looking her up and down. "A woman whose only skill is maxing out credit cards on Fifth Avenue and wearing couture to galas? You're going to lecture me on commercial value?"

The words felt like a physical punch to her throat. Her pride bled out on the floor.

"I graduated top of my class at RISD, Dominick! I am more than qualified to handle the interior design for this project!" she yelled, her eyes burning with furious tears.

Dominick didn't even blink. He picked up the modified proposal, refusing to even glance at her intricate pencil lines. Instead of destroying it, he coldly folded the pages and shoved them into the very bottom of his briefcase, snapping the leather flap shut as if locking away something utterly worthless.

"Listen to me, Aubrey," he said, leaning his hands flat on the desk, towering over her. "My corporate files are not a dollhouse for you to play in when you get bored."