The apartment was small, cramped, and smelled of dust. It was Elle's old place, the one she had kept but never visited in three years. Boxes were stacked floor to ceiling.

Bree kicked the door open, holding two bottles of champagne like grenades.

"Freedom!" she screamed.

Elle laughed. It sounded a little rusty. She took a bottle.

"Let's get wasted," she said.

For the next two hours, the three of them-Elle, Carlyn, and Bree-turned the tiny living room into a dressing room. Clothes flew through the air.

Bree held up a dress. It was silver, short, and consisted mostly of fringe and bad intentions.

"This one," Bree said. "It'll blind them."

Elle hesitated. Hunt hated short dresses. He said they lacked class.

She grabbed the silver dress. "Why not?"

She pulled it on. The fringe shimmied with every movement. In the mirror, with her dark smoky eye makeup and the glittering dress, she didn't look like Hunt Noble's girlfriend. She looked dangerous.

Her phone buzzed. A notification from her bank. The transfer from Noble Media had cleared.

Thirty million dollars.

She stared at the number. It felt like monopoly money. It felt like the price tag on her dignity.

She opened her email and sent a message to the gallery owner in SoHo regarding a painting she had admired years ago. An abstract piece, chaotic and colorful. The kind of art Hunt called "messy."

I'll take it, she typed.

"Uber's here!" Carlyn yelled.

They piled into the car, a tangle of limbs and perfume.

"What if he's there?" Bree asked from the front seat. "The Vault is his turf."

"New York is a big city," Elle said, staring out the window. "What are the odds?"

The odds, as it turned out, were one hundred percent.

The Vault was dark, loud, and vibrated with bass that rattled the teeth. But up in the VIP mezzanine, it was a different world.

Hunt sat in the shadows of the private booth. A glass of whiskey sat untouched in his hand. Across from him, three investment bankers were talking about mergers.

"So regarding the acquisition..." one of them droned.

"Hmm," Hunt grunted. His eyes were fixed on the entrance downstairs.

He was waiting. He hated himself for it, but he was waiting.

Preston stood in the corner, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

The velvet ropes downstairs parted.

Elle walked in.

The disco lights hit her dress and she exploded into sparks. Silver fire. She threw her head back and laughed at something Bree said, her neck long and exposed.

Hunt's hand tightened around his glass until he feared it might shatter.

Lance Ford, a man Hunt had tolerated only because of his family's oil money, leaned over the railing.

"Whoa," Lance whistled. "Is that Elle Allison? Look at that."

Hunt turned his head slowly. He fixed Lance with a stare that could freeze magma.

"Don't," Hunt said.

Lance laughed, oblivious. "She's single now, right? Fair game."

"She's not game," Hunt said, his voice low.

"Relax, Noble. You threw her out. One man's trash..."

Hunt stood up. The chair scraped loudly against the floor. The bankers stopped talking.

Lance held up his hands. "Kidding. I'm going to get a drink."

He winked and headed for the stairs.

Hunt watched him go. Then he looked back at Elle. She was moving toward the dance floor, a beacon of light in the darkness.

She looked happy.

The sight made Hunt feel violent.

The bass thumped in Elle's chest, syncing with her heartbeat. She danced, letting the music wash away the thinking part of her brain. Men approached, drawn like moths to the silver flame of her dress. She pushed them away with a smile, spinning out of reach.

She felt free. Or at least, she was acting free.

Up on the mezzanine, Hunt hadn't blinked in five minutes. He tracked her movement through the crowd.

He saw Lance Ford weaving through the dancers, two cocktails in his hands.

Hunt set his glass down on the table with a thack.

Lance intercepted Elle near the edge of the dance floor. He said something. Elle shook her head, turning away.

Lance persisted. He stepped into her path. As a waiter squeezed past them with a tray of sparklers, creating a distraction, Lance's hand hovered over the drink in his left hand.

It was a subtle movement. A flick of the wrist. A pinch of white powder falling into the glass.

From the floor, it was invisible.

From the balcony, it was clear as day.

Hunt's blood turned to ice. He shoved the table aside, ignoring the crash of glassware.

"Noble?" one of the bankers shouted.

Hunt vaulted over the back of the booth and sprinted for the stairs.

Downstairs, Elle was thirsty. The dancing had left her parched.

Lance smiled apologetically. "My bad. Just let me buy you a water. Or this... lemonade?"

He held out the drink.

Elle hesitated. She looked for Bree, but the crowd had swallowed her. She was hot, tired, and her throat was dry.

"Fine," she said. "Thanks."

She took the glass. She drank half of it in one long swallow.

Three minutes later, the world tilted.

The lights started to smear, turning into long, neon ribbons. Her knees felt like they were made of cotton.

"Whoa there," Lance's voice sounded distorted, like he was speaking underwater. He wrapped an arm around her waist. "You had too much. Let's get you some air."

"No," Elle mumbled. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth. "Bree..."

"Bree's outside," Lance lied smoothly. He started dragging her toward the side exit, the one that led to the attached hotel elevators.

Elle tried to dig her heels in, but her legs wouldn't obey. Panic flared in her chest, cold and sharp, but she couldn't scream. Her voice was a whisper.

"Stop..."

Lance pushed the door open. The hallway was quieter. The elevator bank was just ahead.

"Almost there, sweetheart," Lance grunted, shifting his grip to haul her dead weight.

He reached for the elevator button.

A hand clamped onto his wrist. A hand that felt like a steel vice.

Lance spun around.

Hunt Noble stood there. His chest was heaving, his tie gone, his eyes black holes of rage.

"Let. Her. Go."

Lance tried to laugh, but it came out as a squeak. "Hunt? Hey. She's wasted. She asked me to take her upstairs. Don't be a cockblock."

Elle lifted her head. Through the blur, she saw a dark figure. A familiar scent-sandalwood and cold air-hit her.

"Help..." she whimpered.

The sound snapped the last thread of Hunt's control.

He didn't speak. He pulled back his fist and drove it into the center of Lance's face.

There was a wet, sickening crunch of cartilage.

Lance dropped Elle. He flew backward, slamming into the elevator doors, blood exploding from his nose.

Lance hit the floor, clutching his face, howling. Blood sprayed across the pristine carpet of the hallway.

The music from the club was muffled here, but the screams of the few people in the corridor were sharp.

Hunt didn't stop. He stepped over Elle, grabbed Lance by the lapels of his expensive jacket, and hauled him up. He slammed a fist into Lance's ribs, then another into his jaw.

"You touched her," Hunt snarled. Crack. "You drugged her." Crack.

"Hunt!"

The shout came from Carlyn. She had just burst through the doors, phone in hand. Her face was pale.

"I called 911!" she screamed. "They're putting the club on lockdown!"

Hunt dropped Lance. The man crumpled into a heap, sobbing.

Hunt turned to Elle. She was slumped against the wall, her eyes rolling back in her head. She was clawing at the neck of her dress, her skin flushed a deep, unnatural red.

"Hot," she moaned. "So hot."

Hunt scooped her up. She was limp, burning up.

He kicked the elevator button. The doors slid open. He carried her inside, pressing the button for the penthouse suite-Noble Media kept a permanent room here.

"I'm suing you!" Lance gargled from the floor, spitting blood. "I'll take everything!"

The doors closed, shutting out his voice.

Inside the elevator, Elle writhed in Hunt's arms. "You...?" she whispered, her voice a raw thread of sound. Her hand came up, tracing his jawline with a strange, searching familiarity. "You came back?"

Hunt stiffened.

Who the hell was she calling for?

Jealousy, sharp and irrational, pierced through his panic. Even now, drugged and helpless, she was calling for someone else.

"It's Hunt," he said roughly. "Look at me."

She blinked, her eyes unfocused. "No... the light... it's warm..."

The elevator dinged. Hunt carried her down the hall and kicked the suite door open. He went straight to the bathroom.

He turned the shower on cold.

He stepped in, shoes and all, still holding her. The icy water hit them like a shock wave.

Elle screamed. She thrashed, trying to escape the cold.

"Shh," Hunt held her tighter, pressing her face into his wet shirt. "You need to cool down. The drug... it's overheating your system."

The water soaked his suit, ruining the Italian wool. He didn't care.

Elle stopped fighting. She shivered, clinging to him. She stood on her tiptoes, pressing her body against his. Her lips found his neck.

"Please," she sobbed. "Make it stop. Help me."

Her hands were everywhere, pulling at his wet clothes, desperate.

Hunt groaned. He was a man. A man who had been obsessed with this woman for three years. Her body against his was electric.

He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her back an inch. "Elle. Who am I?"

She looked at him, water streaming down her face, mascara running in dark rivers.

"Hunt," she whispered. "You're Hunt."

He broke.

He kissed her. It was fierce, possessive, claiming. He backed her against the shower tiles.

BANG.

The suite door exploded inward.

"POLICE! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"

Boots thundered on the floor.

Hunt spun around, shielding Elle's body with his own.

Three police officers stood in the bathroom doorway, service weapons drawn and pointed directly at his chest.