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.