The elevator dinged at 9:30 PM.

Gracia rubbed the back of her neck. Her muscles were tied in knots. She had finished the data entry. It was perfect.

She stepped into the elevator, desperate to get home.

There was someone already inside.

Bridger.

He was leaning against the back wall, holding his suit jacket over one arm. His tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. He looked exhausted, but devastatingly handsome.

Gracia froze. The doors started to close. She put her hand out to stop them, intending to back away.

Bridger hit the 'Door Close' button.

"Get in," he said, his voice flat. "I don't have time to wait for the next elevator."

Gracia stepped in. She pressed herself into the front corner, as far away from him as the six-by-six box allowed.

The air smelled of him. Sandalwood and something sharp, like expensive scotch.

The elevator descended. Floor 30. Floor 29.

Bridger didn't look at her. He stared at her reflection in the polished steel doors.

"Working late," he observed. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Gracia said.

"Does your husband mind?"

The question hung in the air.

Gracia gripped her bag strap. "He supports my career."

Bridger let out a short, harsh laugh. "Career? Is that what you call data entry?"

"It pays the bills," she said defensively.

"Does it? Or does he expect you to bring home the bacon while he plays daddy?"

He was baiting her. He was fishing for information about the man he thought she loved.

"He's a good father," Gracia said. It was the only truth she could offer, because Bridger would be a good father, if he knew.

Bridger turned his head to look at her. His eyes were dark pools of resentment.

"I'm sure he is."

The elevator hit the lobby. The doors opened.

Outside, a storm had broken. Rain lashed against the glass doors of the lobby, turning the world into a blur of gray and black.

Gracia pulled out her phone. She opened the Uber app.

$82.00.

She stared at the number. Surge pricing.

She couldn't afford it. That was half a week of groceries.

Usually, the company expensed rides after 9 PM.

Bridger walked past her. A black Maybach was waiting at the curb, the driver already standing there with a massive umbrella.

Bridger stopped. He looked at the rain, then at Gracia.

"By the way," he said casually, over the sound of the thunder. "We're cutting costs. As of tonight, the late-night transportation stipend is suspended for non-executive staff."

Gracia looked up at him, horror washing over her face. "What?"

"You heard me. No more free rides."

He signaled to his driver.

Gracia looked at her phone again. $82. She couldn't do it.

"Why?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Bridger stepped under the umbrella. He looked back at her, his face illuminated by the headlights of his car.

"Call your supportive husband," he said coldly. "Let him pick you up."

He got into the car. The door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud.

The car pulled away, splashing water onto the sidewalk.

Gracia stood alone in the lobby. The security guard looked at her with sympathy.

She put her phone away. She pulled out a broken umbrella from her tote bag. One of the spokes was snapped.

She walked out into the rain. The subway station was four blocks away.

Bridger watched her from the back seat of the Maybach. He watched her struggle with the broken umbrella as the wind turned it inside out. He saw her hunch her shoulders against the freezing downpour.

He waited for a car to pull up. He waited for the husband to save her.

No one came.

She walked into the dark, wet night alone.

Bridger felt a knot tighten in his gut. He reached for his phone to tell the driver to turn around, but his pride stopped his hand.

She chose this, he told himself. She chose him.

But as the car sped toward his penthouse, the image of her small figure fighting the wind burned into his retina.

Gracia was coughing. It was a wet, hacking sound that she tried to stifle in her scarf.

Her nose was red, and her skin was the color of old paper. The walk to the subway in the freezing rain had done its damage. She had a fever; she could feel the heat radiating behind her eyes.

It was 12:30 PM. The breakroom was crowded.

The air smelled of heated leftovers-curry, lasagna, popcorn.

Gracia sat at a small round table with a cup of hot water. That was her lunch. She had spent her last twenty dollars on Birdie's refill this morning.

Her stomach growled. A loud, guttural protest that silenced the conversation at the next table.

Gracia flushed crimson. She pressed her hand against her stomach, pretending to check her phone.

Tess sat down across from her. She dropped a heavy brown paper bag on the table.

"I accidentally ordered two turkey clubs," Tess said, not making eye contact. She pushed a wrapped sandwich toward Gracia. "They won't keep. Help me out?"

Gracia looked at the sandwich. It was from the gourmet deli downstairs. It cost $18.

"Tess, I can't," Gracia rasped.

"You can. Unless you want me to throw it in the trash, which is a sin against turkey."

Gracia's pride warred with her hunger. The hunger won.

"I'll pay you back on Friday," Gracia whispered.

"Shut up and eat."

Gracia unwrapped the sandwich. Her hands shook as she lifted it. The first bite was heaven.

Up above, on the glass-walled mezzanine that overlooked the breakroom, Bridger stood like a gargoyle.

He was watching her.

He saw the way she devoured the sandwich. He saw the way she held the cup of hot water like it was precious.

Where is the money? he thought. Where is the husband's money?

If she was married to a partner, why was she starving?

He felt a surge of irrational anger at the unknown man. You don't take care of her, he thought. I would have fed her.

He turned to Sloane.

"Why is the temperature in here so low?" he demanded.

Sloane checked the thermostat app. "It's 72 degrees, sir."

"It's freezing," Bridger lied. "And get someone to restock the first aid kits on the marketing floor. They're empty."

"Are they?"

"Just do it."

Bridger walked away. He couldn't watch her eat charity anymore. It made him want to break something.

Down in the breakroom, Tess leaned in.

"Hey, did you hear about Project Windfall?"

Gracia swallowed a bite of turkey. "No."

"The new gaming division. They're trying to hire Zephyr for the concept art."

Gracia choked. She coughed violently, grabbing her water. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Zephyr. The name echoed in the small, crowded space, a secret she guarded with her life.

"Zephyr?" she squeaked, forcing her voice to sound casual.

"Yeah, the digital artist. The ghost. No one knows who he is. Or she. Bridger is apparently obsessed with getting them. Says the style is the only thing that fits the vision."

Gracia's heart pounded. She took a slow sip of water, her mind racing. An opportunity. A dangerous, terrifying opportunity.

"Did they... find him?" Gracia asked carefully.

"No. They're putting out a blind bid. Massive money. Six figures for a portfolio."

Six figures.

Gracia looked at her empty sandwich wrapper. Six figures meant Birdie's surgery. It meant paying off the debt. It meant freedom.

But it meant working directly with Bridger. It meant risking exposure.

"Crazy," Gracia said, trying to sound bored.

She went back to her desk. Sitting on her keyboard was a box of DayQuil and a bottle of Vitamin C.

She looked around. "Tess?"

Tess shook her head from her own desk. "Not me."

Gracia picked up the box. It was the expensive brand.

She looked up at the glass office on the top floor. The blinds were drawn.

She popped two pills. She didn't care who sent them. She just needed to survive the day.

The next morning was chaos. Birdie had refused to put on her shoes, and the toaster had shorted out.

In the rush, Gracia had been finishing a Zephyr commission-a digital painting of a crimson storm. She had wiped a smudge of red oil paint off her cheek but missed the spot on the side of her neck, right below her ear.

She arrived at work breathless.

At 10:00 AM, she went to the pantry. She needed caffeine to combat the drowsy side effects of the cold medicine.

The door swung open.

Bridger walked in.

He wasn't alone; the VP of Operations and the Legal Counsel were trailing him. They took one look at the tension in the room, grabbed water bottles, and miraculously remembered urgent phone calls they had to make.

They fled.

Bridger stayed.

He leaned against the marble counter, his arms crossed over his chest. His suit was a dark charcoal, tailored to perfection.

He watched Gracia fiddle with the coffee machine.

"You look better," he said. It sounded like an accusation.

"The medicine helped," Gracia said, not looking at him.

"Good. I can't have my employees infecting the whole floor."

He moved closer. He was too close. Gracia could feel the heat radiating from him.

His eyes scanned her face, then dropped to her neck.

He froze.

His gaze locked onto the red smudge.

To him, it didn't look like paint. It looked like a bruise. A love bite. A mark of possession.

Bridger felt a roar of blood in his ears. Last night. She was sick, she was broke, she was exhausted, and yet she had gone home to that man and let him mark her.

Jealousy, hot and corrosive, burned through his gut.

He stepped into her space, trapping her against the counter.

Gracia gasped, her back hitting the edge of the sink. "Mr. Jennings?"

His gaze was a physical weight on her skin, hot and heavy. He leaned in, not touching her, but so close she could feel the warmth of his body, see the fury tightening the muscles in his jaw. His eyes, dark and stormy, were fixed on the mark.

"What is this?" he growled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to shake her bones.

Gracia flinched at the sheer venom in his tone. She instinctively wanted to slap him, to push him away, but his proximity was paralyzing. "Don't," she managed to whisper, a plea and a warning.

"Rough night?" Bridger sneered. "Or did your husband just want to make sure everyone knew who you belong to?"

Gracia's hand flew to her neck. Her fingers came away with a tiny smear of red pigment.

Paint.

Relief washed over her, followed instantly by terror. If she told him it was paint, he might ask why a data entry clerk was covered in professional-grade oil pigments. He might connect the dots to Zephyr.

She couldn't risk it.

She lowered her hand, hiding the red tip of her finger.

"It's none of your business," she said, her voice shaking. "My private life is private."

Bridger's jaw clenched. A muscle ticked in his cheek. She wasn't denying it. She was protecting him.

"You're right," he said, his voice ice cold. "But your performance is my business."

He stepped back, putting distance between them.

"I want the ten-year historical sales analysis on my desk by 8 AM tomorrow."

Gracia's eyes widened. "That's... that's impossible. The archives aren't even digitized."

"Then you better start typing," Bridger said. "Unless you want to go home to your husband unemployed."

He turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the coffee cups rattled on the shelf.

Gracia rushed to the mirror. She saw the red mark. She scrubbed at it with a wet paper towel until her skin was raw and red.

Now it really looked like a hickey.

She stared at her reflection, tears pricking her eyes. He hated her. He hated her so much that he was imagining sins she hadn't even committed.