The afternoon sun sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, hitting Christina directly in the eyes.

She flinched, turning her head into the pillow. Her entire body ached. Her thighs felt bruised, and a dull, throbbing pain radiated from her lower back.

The memories of the garage, the elevator, the wall in the foyer rushed back, hitting her like a physical weight on her chest.

She gasped, sitting up abruptly. The velvet duvet fell to her waist.

The bed beside her was empty. The sheets were cold. Jackson was gone.

Christina pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. A wave of intense nausea rolled through her stomach. She felt dirty. She felt completely, utterly owned.

She forced herself to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. Her feet hit the plush rug, but her knees buckled instantly. She grabbed the nightstand to steady herself, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

She had to get out of here.

She stumbled out of the bedroom and walked down the hallway. Her clothes from this morning were scattered on the floor. She picked up her white silk blouse. It was ruined, the buttons completely torn off, the fabric ripped at the seam.

She dropped it as if it burned her.

She walked into Jackson's massive walk-in closet. The smell of his cedar and bergamot cologne made her stomach churn again. She grabbed the first thing she saw—a crisp, white button-down shirt.

She pulled it on, rolling up the sleeves. The fabric smelled like him. It felt like putting on a straightjacket, a physical reminder of his brand on her skin.

She didn't bother looking in the mirror. Her purse was sitting on the foyer console, right where someone had placed it after retrieving it from the car. She snatched it up and ran out the door.

The private elevator descended in silence, carrying her straight down to the building's main lobby. The polished marble and the doorman's polite nod felt like a cruel joke—everyone in this building answered to Jackson Booker. She kept her head down, pushing through the revolving doors and out onto the Manhattan sidewalk.

She hailed the first cab she saw, giving the driver her address in Queens. The entire ride, she stared out the window, her mind blank and buzzing all at once.

When she finally locked the door of her cramped apartment behind her, she stripped off his shirt and threw it into the trash can.

She stood under the shower for forty minutes. She turned the water as hot as she could stand it, scrubbing her skin with a loofah until it was bright red and stinging. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, she couldn't wash away the feeling of his hands pinning her to the wall.

When she finally stepped out, she dried off and walked to her closet. She bypassed her usual silk blouses and V-neck dresses. She pulled out a thick, black turtleneck sweater and a pair of wide-leg trousers.

She pulled the turtleneck up as high as it would go, making sure it covered the faint red marks on her collarbone. She tied her hair back into a severe, tight bun.

She checked her phone. It was 2:15 PM. She was over six hours late for work.

Christina grabbed her bag and headed to the subway.

When she swiped her badge at the glass doors of Booker Capital, her hand was shaking so badly she dropped her ID twice.

The trading floor was a chaotic symphony of ringing phones and shouting analysts. Christina kept her head down, walking quickly toward the executive suites.

She stopped by the pantry to get a bottle of water. Her throat felt like sandpaper.

As she pushed the pantry door open, she heard voices.

Jessica, a junior analyst, was leaning against the counter, holding her phone out. Chloe, the HR coordinator, was looking at the screen, her eyes wide.

"Did you see the Wall Street Journal this morning?" Jessica whispered loudly, her voice buzzing with excitement. "The Booker-Wall merger is official. And look at this!"

Christina froze just inside the doorway.

Chloe gasped. "Oh my god. Is that Jackson and Carson Wall? They look so young!"

"It's from their Harvard days," Jessica said, swiping the screen. "Look at the ring he gave her. It's a flawless five-carat emerald cut. They are literally the perfect power couple. I heard she's moving into his penthouse next month."

Christina's heart stopped beating. The blood drained from her face, rushing to her feet.

Moving into his penthouse. The same penthouse where she had just woken up, bruised and broken.

Christina stepped forward, her flat shoes making a scuffing sound on the tile.

Jessica and Chloe jumped, spinning around. When they saw Christina, their faces flushed with guilt. Everyone knew Christina was Jackson's gatekeeper.

"Oh, hi, Christina," Chloe stammered, quickly locking her phone. "We were just... taking a break."

Christina didn't look at them. She walked straight to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of water, and walked out.

The moment she was back in the hallway, the physical pain hit her. A sharp, stabbing ache right in the center of her chest.

She walked to her desk, which sat right outside Jackson's massive double doors. She sat down in her ergonomic chair. Her hands hovered over the keyboard.

She opened a blank Word document.

Her fingers trembled as she typed the date. Then, she typed: Letter of Resignation.

Every keystroke felt like lifting a hundred-pound weight. But with every word she typed, the fog in her brain began to clear, replaced by a cold, hard resolve.

She printed the letter. The printer whirred, spitting out the single sheet of paper.

Christina picked it up. She didn't bother knocking.

She walked past Ben Rhodes, who was standing guard near the doors.

"Miss Chen, he's—" Ben started to say, reaching out.

Christina ignored him. She pushed the heavy mahogany doors open and stepped into the CEO's office.

Jackson was sitting behind his massive desk, a phone pressed to his ear. He looked up when she barged in. His eyes immediately dropped to her outfit—the severe black turtleneck, the complete lack of makeup, the rigid posture.

He said something brief into the phone and hung up.

"You're late," Jackson said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were tracking her every movement like a hawk.

Christina walked right up to his desk. She slammed the piece of paper down on the polished wood.

"I quit," Christina said. Her voice was raspy, but it didn't shake.

Jackson looked at the paper. He didn't even read the words. He just stared at the bold heading.

He slowly leaned back in his leather chair. He reached out, his long fingers picking up the resignation letter.

"You quit," Jackson repeated softly.

"Yes," Christina said, her fingers twisting the fabric of her skirt until her knuckles turned stark white. "You can keep your severance pay. You can keep your NDA. I am leaving."

Jackson's eyes darkened. He stood up slowly, his height instantly dwarfing her. He walked around the edge of the desk, stopping mere inches from her.

Christina refused to step back. She tilted her chin up, glaring at him.

"You think you can just walk away?" Jackson asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Did last night teach you nothing?"

"Last night taught me that you are a monster," Christina spat, the tears finally burning the backs of her eyes. "You cannot marry Carson Wall and keep me locked in your apartment like a pet!"

Jackson's jaw tightened. He held up the resignation letter right in front of her face.

With one smooth, violent motion, he ripped the paper in half. Then he put the pieces together and ripped them again. And again.

He dropped the shredded confetti into the metal trash can by his desk.

"As long as Booker Capital exists, you work for me," Jackson said, his voice hard and absolute.

He reached out, his hand wrapping around the back of her neck. His thumb pressed into the pulse point below her jaw.

"Go back to your desk, Christina," he ordered softly.

Christina stared at him, her chest heaving. The sheer, suffocating weight of his power crushed the last bit of air from her lungs. She couldn't fight him physically. She couldn't fight him legally.

She violently shoved his hand away from her neck.

She spun around and ran out of the office, the heavy doors slamming shut behind her with a deafening boom.

Outside, Jessica and Chloe were walking past. They froze, staring at Christina's pale face and the slamming door.

Christina ignored their wide eyes. She sat down at her desk, staring blindly at her computer screen.

A cold, terrifying realization settled in her stomach. Running away wasn't an option. If she wanted to survive Jackson Booker, she had to find another way out.

The St. Regis ballroom was a sea of black tuxedos and glittering diamonds. The air was thick with the smell of expensive champagne, roasted truffles, and the predatory scent of Wall Street sharks circling a fresh kill.

Christina stood half a step behind Jackson's right shoulder. She wore a modest, floor-length black gown. It was elegant, but designed to make her blend into the shadows.

She held a sleek tablet, tracking the names and affiliations of everyone who approached him. Her feet ached in her heels, but her posture remained flawlessly straight.

"Jack, my boy!" a loud, booming voice cut through the chatter.

Christina's stomach instantly tightened.

Mickey Boggs pushed his way through the crowd. He was a heavy-set man in his fifties, his face flushed with alcohol, his tuxedo jacket straining at the buttons. He was the CEO of a logistics firm crucial to the upcoming merger.

Mickey smelled strongly of stale cigar smoke and cheap cologne.

"Mickey," Jackson said, his tone perfectly neutral. He didn't offer his hand.

Mickey didn't seem to care. He held two crystal glasses filled with dark amber liquid. He shoved one toward Jackson.

"Drink with me, Jack. To the merger!" Mickey slurred slightly.

Jackson looked at the glass. He held up his own glass of sparkling water. "I'm pacing myself tonight, Mickey. Early board meeting tomorrow."

Mickey's face fell, a flash of ugly annoyance crossing his features. He looked past Jackson and his eyes landed on Christina. His gaze dragged slowly down her body, making her skin crawl.

"Well, if Mr. Booker is too good for my scotch," Mickey said, a sleazy smile spreading across his face, "why doesn't your pretty little assistant drink it for him?"

He shoved the glass directly into Christina's face. The smell of the raw alcohol made her throat close up.

Christina took a half-step back, her eyes darting to Jackson. Tell him no, she pleaded silently. Tell him I'm working.

Jackson didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on Mickey.

"Mr. Boggs is a VIP guest, Christina," Jackson said, his voice smooth and utterly devoid of emotion. "Don't disappoint him."

The words were a physical blow. Christina felt the blood drain from her face. Her fingertips went completely numb.

He was throwing her to the wolves. For a logistics contract.

Mickey laughed, a wet, guttural sound. "Hear that, sweetheart? Drink up."

Christina's hand shook as she reached out and took the glass. The crystal was heavy. She brought it to her lips and tipped it back.

The scotch was cheap and burned like battery acid. It scorched her throat and hit her empty stomach like a lit match. She clamped her mouth shut, forcing herself not to cough, her eyes watering from the burn.

"Good girl," Mickey cheered. He immediately signaled a passing waiter and grabbed another glass, shoving it into her hand. "Another one!"

Christina looked at Jackson again. He was checking his phone, completely ignoring her humiliation.

She drank the second glass. Then a third.

By the fourth glass, the ballroom began to spin. Her stomach cramped violently, a sharp, twisting pain that made her want to double over. The edges of her vision blurred.

Mickey stepped closer. His sweaty, thick hand clamped down on her waist, his fingers digging into the silk of her dress.

"You know, Jack," Mickey said, leaning in so close Christina could smell the rotting food on his breath. "You've got a real talent for picking them."

Christina tried to pull away, but her legs felt like lead. She pushed weakly at Mickey's chest. "Please, don't."

Jackson's phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, and his jaw tightened.

"Excuse me, Mickey. I need to take this," Jackson said.

He turned and walked toward the terrace doors, disappearing into the night air. He didn't even glance back. As she watched his retreating figure, Christina's peripheral vision caught another movement. The gentleman from Boston, Gaston Carter, was quietly excusing himself from the crowd and heading toward the hotel's private elevator banks. But the fleeting distraction was instantly shattered.

The moment Jackson was gone, Mickey's grip on her waist tightened painfully. He pulled her flush against his sweaty body.

"Looks like he left you to me," Mickey whispered, his wet lips brushing her ear.

Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the alcohol haze. Christina shoved him with both hands, using all her remaining strength. Mickey stumbled back a step, surprised.

"I need to use the restroom," Christina gasped, turning and practically running through the crowd.

She bumped into shoulders and spilled drinks, ignoring the annoyed glares. She pushed through the heavy doors of the women's lounge and stumbled toward the sinks.

She gripped the marble counter, her knuckles white. She leaned over the sink, dry heaving. Her stomach violently rejected the alcohol, but nothing came up but bitter acid.

Tears streamed down her face. She looked at her reflection. Her makeup was smeared, her eyes bloodshot. She looked like exactly what Jackson treated her as-trash.

The door to the lounge opened.

The sharp, rhythmic click of expensive heels echoed on the marble floor.

Christina quickly turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on her face, trying to hide her breakdown.

A woman stepped up to the sink next to hers. The air instantly filled with the scent of a custom, incredibly expensive floral perfume.

Christina glanced over.

The woman was stunning. She wore a white silk gown that draped perfectly over her slender figure. Her blonde hair was styled in flawless waves.

It was Carson Wall.

Christina's breath hitched. She froze, the water running over her hands.

Carson opened her white crocodile Hermes clutch. She pulled out a pristine linen handkerchief and held it out to Christina.

"Had a bit too much?" Carson asked. Her voice was soft, melodic, dripping with sympathy. "Wall Street parties are always so brutal on women. They expect us to keep up with the boys."

Christina stared at the handkerchief. She slowly reached out and took it. "Thank you."

"I'm Carson, by the way," she said, offering a warm, perfect smile.

"Christina," she replied, her voice raspy. She wiped her face, her heart hammering against her ribs. Did Carson know who she was?

Carson turned to the water dispenser in the corner. She filled a crystal glass with ice water and walked back, pressing it into Christina's hand.

"Drink this. It'll help settle your stomach," Carson said gently.

Christina took a sip. The cold water felt like heaven on her scorched throat. "Thank you. You're very kind."

Carson leaned against the counter, crossing her ankles. She looked at Christina, her blue eyes scanning her face with a slow, deliberate intensity.

"You came with Jackson, didn't you?" Carson asked casually. "I saw you standing behind him earlier. He seemed... distracted tonight."

Christina's grip on the glass tightened. The alcohol made her sluggish, but her survival instincts flared.

"I'm just his assistant," Christina said carefully. "I don't really know his moods."

Carson smiled. It was a beautiful smile, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"Of course," Carson said. She pulled a tube of Tom Ford lipstick from her clutch and perfectly reapplied it, pressing her lips together. "Assistants never know anything, do they?"

She snapped her clutch shut.

"Feel better, Christina," Carson said, turning and walking out of the lounge.

Christina stood alone in the quiet bathroom. She looked down at the glass of water in her hand.

Suddenly, the water didn't feel soothing anymore. It felt cold, heavy, and deeply unsettling. Carson's eyes hadn't held sympathy. They had held the calculating look of a predator sizing up its prey.

Christina poured the rest of the water down the drain.

Christina splashed cold water on her face one last time, dried off, and took a deep breath. The nausea had subsided slightly, replaced by a cold, pulsing headache.

She pushed open the doors of the women's lounge and walked back into the chaotic noise of the St. Regis ballroom.

She scanned the crowd, looking for Jackson's dark head. She needed to find him. She needed to tell him she was sick and had to go home.

She walked toward the terrace where she had last seen him. The glass doors were open, the cold night wind blowing the sheer curtains.

The terrace was empty.

Christina frowned, pulling out her phone. She dialed his number. It went straight to voicemail.

She tried again. Nothing. A cold knot of anxiety began to tighten in her stomach.

"Looking for your boss?"

The voice came from right behind her.

Christina spun around. Mickey Boggs was standing there, blocking her path back into the main ballroom. His face was redder now, his eyes glazed with lust and alcohol.

"Have you seen Mr. Booker?" Christina asked, taking a step back until her shoulders hit the glass door.

Mickey grinned, showing his crooked teeth. "Jack got called away. Urgent business. Left about ten minutes ago."

Christina's heart dropped into her stomach. "Left? He didn't say anything to me."

"He told me to tell you to stay and finalize the contract details," Mickey said, taking a step closer. He reached out and grabbed her wrist. His grip was painfully tight. "Said you handle all the fine print. So let's go somewhere quiet and... discuss."

"No," Christina said, her voice shaking. "We can discuss it here, in the ballroom. Let go of me."

She tried to yank her arm away, but Mickey was too strong. He pulled her forward, his massive weight dragging her toward the side exit that led to the hotel elevators.

"Don't be difficult, sweetheart," Mickey growled, his fingers digging into her skin. "Jack said you'd take care of everything. And I've been watching you all night. You owe me a little attention."

The words hit Christina like a physical blow to the head.

Jack said you'd take care of everything.

Jackson had left her here. Alone. With this man. He hadn't seen her as someone to protect. He had seen her as a tool. A convenient piece of office equipment to be deployed and discarded at his whim. She was his property, and property didn't get to complain about how it was used.

The realization was so absolute, so devastating, it paralyzed her for a crucial second.

By the time she found her voice to scream, Mickey had shoved her into an empty elevator and hit the button for the executive suites. The doors slid shut, cutting off the noise of the ballroom.

"Someone will see us!" Christina yelled, hitting his chest.

Mickey laughed, pinning her against the mirrored wall of the elevator. He pressed his heavy, sweating body against hers. "Nobody cares, honey. You're just the help."

He buried his face in her neck, his wet mouth leaving a trail of saliva on her skin.

Christina gagged. The smell of him made her stomach violently heave. She pushed at his shoulders, but she was trapped.

The elevator pinged. Floor 12.

The doors opened, and Mickey dragged her out into the quiet, thickly carpeted hallway. He pulled a keycard from his pocket and swiped it against the door of Suite 1204.

The green light flashed. He shoved the door open and threw her inside.

Christina stumbled, her heels catching on the rug, and she crashed hard onto the floor next to a glass coffee table. Pain shot up her arm.

The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind them. The lock clicked.

It sounded exactly like the lock on Jackson's penthouse door.

"Let's get comfortable," Mickey said, taking off his tuxedo jacket and throwing it on the sofa. He started unbuckling his belt.

Christina scrambled backward, her back hitting the leg of the sofa. Pure, unadulterated terror flooded her veins.

"Don't touch me," she screamed, grabbing the first thing her hand found on the coffee table.

It was a heavy, silver ice bucket. Condensation dripped down its sides.

Mickey sneered, stepping toward her. "Put that down, you crazy bitch. You think Jack's going to care? He left you here with me, didn't he? He knows exactly what I want."

He lunged at her, his hands grabbing the neckline of her black dress. The fabric tore with a loud rip.

The sound of the tearing fabric snapped something inside Christina. The paralyzing fear vanished, replaced by a blinding, primal instinct to survive.

She didn't scream. She gripped the handles of the silver ice bucket with both hands, raised it high above her head, and swung it down with every ounce of strength in her body.

CRACK.

The heavy silver bottom connected solidly with the side of Mickey's head.

Ice cubes and freezing water exploded out of the bucket, showering over them.

Mickey let out a high-pitched shriek of pain. He stumbled backward, his hands flying to his head. Blood instantly gushed from a gash above his ear, mixing with the melting ice on his face.

He collapsed onto his knees, groaning loudly.

Christina didn't freeze. She dropped the dented ice bucket. She kicked off her high heels, leaving them on the rug, and sprinted for the door.

She yanked the handle down, pulled the door open, and ran out into the hallway.

"I'll kill you!" Mickey roared from inside the room.

Christina ran barefoot down the long, empty corridor. Her lungs burned, pulling in ragged breaths. She didn't wait for the elevator. She hit the heavy metal bar of the emergency exit and threw herself into the concrete stairwell.

She took the stairs two at a time, her bare feet slapping against the cold, rough cement.

She could hear the stairwell door open above her. Mickey was coming.

She ran faster, her vision blurring with tears of panic. She rounded the landing of the tenth floor, moving too fast. Her foot slipped on the edge of the step.

She pitched forward, bracing for the bone-crushing impact of the concrete stairs.

Instead, she crashed into a solid wall of muscle.

Strong arms wrapped around her instantly, catching her mid-fall.

Christina screamed, thrashing wildly, her fists hitting blindly at the person holding her. "Let me go! Let me go!"

"Hey. Hey, look at me," a deep, calm voice said.

The hands holding her weren't groping. They were firm, steady, and incredibly warm. They gripped her upper arms, holding her still without hurting her.

Christina stopped thrashing. She opened her eyes, gasping for air.

She was pressed against a man's chest. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. He smelled of crisp cedar and clean rain.

She looked up.

Gaston Carter was looking down at her. His striking, aristocratic face was usually set in a polite, distant smile. But right now, his dark eyes were wide with shock, quickly shifting into a fierce, protective anger as he took in her torn dress, her bare feet, and her trembling body.

"Christina?" Gaston asked softly.

Above them, the heavy footsteps of Mickey Boggs echoed down the stairwell. "Where are you, you little bitch?!"

Christina whimpered, instinctively pressing herself closer to Gaston, hiding her face in his chest.

Gaston's jaw hardened. He pulled off his suit jacket and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, covering her torn dress. He pulled her behind him, shielding her completely with his body.

Mickey rounded the corner, panting heavily, blood dripping down his neck. He froze when he saw Gaston.

Gaston didn't yell. He didn't even raise his voice. He just stared at Mickey with a look so coldly murderous it made the air in the stairwell drop ten degrees.

The heavy stairwell door below them clicked shut. Two men dressed impeccably in St. Regis staff uniforms, but with rigid postures and sharp, calculating eyes that screamed elite private security, stepped out from the shadows of the lower landing, silently flanking Gaston.

Mickey took one look at the security detail, then at Gaston's face. The color drained from Mickey's flushed cheeks. He slowly backed up the stairs, turned, and fled.

The threat was gone.

The adrenaline that had kept Christina running suddenly evaporated. Her knees buckled.

Gaston caught her before she hit the ground. He scooped her up into his arms effortlessly.

"You're safe," Gaston whispered, his lips brushing the top of her head. "I've got you."

Christina buried her face in the lapel of his shirt. The scent of cedar surrounded her. For the first time in three years, she felt completely, undeniably safe.

She closed her eyes, and the darkness pulled her under.