The Escalade glided out of the parking lot. The engine made almost no noise. The silence inside the cabin was thick enough to choke on.

Francesca pressed her spine against the door panel. Her muscles were pulled so tight they ached. She watched Anton out of the corner of her eye. He continued to swipe a finger across his tablet, his face an unreadable mask.

"We are going to Le Bernardin," Anton said. He did not look at her. His tone was casual, as if he were discussing the weather. "Then I will have the driver take you back to the estate. Your old room is still prepared."

The words hit her like a physical blow. Le Bernardin was a three-Michelin-star restaurant where a single plate cost more than her monthly grocery budget. The Corbett estate was the gilded cage where she had spent her teenage years feeling like a charity case. He was trying to drag her back into his world. He was using his wealth to remind her of her place beneath him.

A bitter laugh scraped its way up her throat.

"You can cancel the reservation, Mr. Corbett," she said, staring straight ahead at the privacy partition. "Have your driver pull over at the next light. I will take the subway."

Anton's finger stopped moving on the screen. A tiny muscle feathered along his jawline. He hated being told no.

He set the tablet face down on the seat next to him. "I had the executive chef at Le Bernardin prepare the black truffle risotto. You used to eat three servings of it when you were sixteen."

He remembered. The realization sent a painful jolt through her chest. He remembered a stupid detail about her eating habits from years ago, and he was using it now as a weapon to soften her up. It made her sick.

"I hate black truffle now," she said, her voice hard. "And I do not live at the estate anymore."

Anton finally turned his head to look at her. His blue eyes narrowed. "You moved out? Where?"

He sounded genuinely surprised. He had assumed she was still sitting exactly where he had left her, a quiet little mouse living off his family's scraps.

"Bushwick," she said, lifting her chin. She rattled off the address of her cheap apartment building. "It is a shared apartment. The whole place is smaller than your bathroom at the estate, but I pay for it myself. I am free."

The word 'free' hung between them. It was a direct attack on his control.

Anton's face darkened. The surprise vanished, replaced by a cold, hard anger. He reached out and tapped the intercom button.

"Change of plans," he ordered the driver. "Take us to the address she just gave."

The Escalade swerved slightly as it changed direction toward Brooklyn.

They did not speak for the rest of the ride. The air pressure in the car dropped, making it hard for Francesca to draw a full breath. She kept her hands clamped together in her lap, her nails digging into her skin to keep from shaking.

Twenty minutes later, the massive luxury SUV pulled up to the curb outside her building. The street was littered with trash. A flickering streetlight cast a sickly yellow glow over the cracked sidewalk. The Escalade looked absurdly out of place.

Francesca reached for the door handle. She pulled it. Nothing happened.

She pulled it again, harder. It was locked.

Panic flared in her chest. She whipped her head around to glare at him. "Unlock the door. What are you doing?"

Anton's patience snapped. He moved so fast she did not have time to flinch. He lunged across the wide seat, his large body trapping her against the door. He slammed his hand flat against the window right next to her ear.

The distance between them vanished. She could feel the heat of his body, smell the whiskey on his breath. His chest brushed against her shoulder. Her heart went into a frantic, terrifying sprint.

"What am I doing?" he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "I should be asking you what the hell you are doing, Francesca."

His eyes were blazing. He was losing control, and it terrified her.

"It is a simple request," he said, his breath warm against her cheek. "Why are you fighting me on this?"

He reached up and grabbed her chin. His fingers were hard, his grip entirely unyielding. He forced her to look directly into his furious blue eyes.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "What is the real reason you are refusing me?"

"Because I do not want my best friend getting played by a man who treats people like garbage!"

Francesca shoved her hands against his chest. The lie tore out of her throat, desperate and loud. She pushed with all her strength. Anton, caught off guard by her sudden physical resistance, let go of her chin and shifted back just enough.

She hit the unlock button on the door panel, shoved the door open, and practically fell out onto the dirty Brooklyn sidewalk. She slammed the door shut without looking back and ran into her building.

Anton sat in the quiet car, his chest heaving slightly. He adjusted his cuffs, his jaw locked tight. He did not believe her. The panic in her eyes had been too real. She was hiding something. He pulled out his phone and dialed his head of security. "I want a full trace on Francesca Meyers. Phone records, movements, everything. Find out what she is hiding."

Three days later, the sky over Manhattan broke open, dumping freezing rain onto the city streets.

Francesca sat inside Balthazar, the warm, golden light of the French brasserie a stark contrast to the miserable weather outside. Across the small table sat Julian and Hayden. Julian was smiling, holding Hayden's hand. The diamond engagement ring on Hayden's finger caught the light.

Francesca smiled at them, but her chest felt hollow. She was terrified Anton would find out about this dinner. She kept glancing at the door.

Across the street, parked illegally in front of a fire hydrant, sat a black Bentley. The engine was off.

Anton sat in the driver's seat. The rain lashed against the windshield, distorting the lights of the restaurant. He had read the security report. He knew she was here. He stared through the glass, his eyes fixed on the window where Francesca sat.

He watched as the dinner ended. The three of them stood up and walked toward the exit.

Anton rolled his window down an inch. The freezing wind bit into his face.

Francesca, Julian, and Hayden stepped out under the restaurant's awning. They were waiting for a car. Anton watched as the man-Julian Meyers, Francesca's brother-turned to Hayden. Julian reached out, gently adjusted Hayden's scarf against the cold, and then pulled her into his arms.

Anton watched as Julian pulled Hayden into his arms and kissed her. The gesture was possessive, leaving no doubt about their relationship.

Inside the Bentley, Anton's blood turned to ice.

He stared at the scene, his mind violently snapping the pieces together into a grotesque picture. Hayden was not single. She was with Julian Meyers. And Francesca knew.

Francesca had known the whole time. She had refused to help him not out of moral outrage, but because she was protecting her brother's territory. She had lied to his face. She and her pathetic brother were playing him for a fool.

A blinding, destructive rage exploded in Anton's chest. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather creaked.

Across the street, a town car pulled up. Julian and Hayden hugged Francesca goodbye and climbed into the back seat. The car drove away, leaving Francesca standing alone under the awning, waiting for her rideshare.

Francesca shivered, pulling her coat tight. She glanced across the street. Her breath hitched. Through the heavy rain, she recognized the sleek lines of the black Bentley.

Before she could process the fear, the driver's side door opened.

Anton stepped out into the downpour. He did not have an umbrella. He wore a heavy cashmere overcoat, but he did not seem to feel the cold. He walked straight across the street, his boots splashing through the deep puddles. He looked like a predator closing in for the kill.

Francesca backed up, her heart leaping into her throat. "Anton? What-"

"Shut up." His voice cut through the sound of the rain, sharp as a razor.

He stopped two feet away from her. The rain plastered his dark hair to his forehead. His eyes were completely dead.

"You think you are clever, Francesca?" he spat, the disgust rolling off him in waves. "You and your brother. You think you can make a fool out of me?"

Francesca shook her head frantically, her wet hair whipping across her face. "What? No, Anton, you do not understand. Let me explain-"

She reached out, her fingers brushing the wet sleeve of his coat.

"Do not touch me!"

Anton violently shoved her arm away. He used too much force. Francesca lost her balance on the slippery, wet pavement. Her arms flailed, but she could not catch herself.

She fell backward, landing hard in a deep puddle of freezing, filthy street water. The impact sent a shockwave of pain up her spine. The icy water instantly soaked through her skirt and coat, chilling her to the bone.

Pedestrians hurrying by stopped and stared. Whispers broke out.

Francesca sat in the dirty water, gasping for air. The physical pain was nothing compared to the crushing humiliation. Her throat closed up. She looked up at him, her vision blurring with hot tears.

Anton stood over her. He looked down at her sitting in the mud, and his lip curled in absolute revulsion.

"You make me sick," he said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

He turned his back on her, walked to his Bentley, got in, and drove away. The tires sent a spray of dirty water washing over her legs.

Francesca did not remember the subway ride home. She did not remember walking up the three flights of stairs.

She stood under the shower in her tiny bathroom, the water turned as hot as it would go. The steam filled the room, but she could not stop shaking. The cold was inside her bones.

She looked down at her hands. They were red and raw from scrubbing. She felt dirty. Not from the puddle on the street, but from the look in Anton's eyes. You make me sick. The words played on a loop in her head, tearing open her chest and pouring salt into the wound.

The girl who had spent seven years secretly drawing his face, hoping he would one day look at her with kindness, died in that puddle.

She turned off the water. She wrapped a towel around her shivering body and walked into her bedroom. Her jaw was set. Her eyes were dry and hollow. The pain had burned itself out, leaving behind a cold, hard anger.

She picked up her phone from the nightstand. She opened her messages and typed his name. She had to end this. Not to save her own feelings, but to protect Julian and Hayden.

She typed fast, her thumbs hitting the screen with aggressive force.

Anton, what you saw tonight is the truth. Hayden is Julian's fiancée. They have been together for years. I did not tell you because I wanted to keep them out of your crosshairs. Stop this. Leave them alone.

She hit send.

She stared at the screen, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Five seconds passed. Then, a red exclamation mark appeared next to the text bubble. Message failed to send.

She frowned. She tapped the retry button. Failed again.

A cold knot formed in her stomach. She dialed his number. The call did not even ring; it went straight to an automated voice telling her the number was unavailable.

He had blocked her.

Francesca let out a harsh, bitter breath. She walked out to the living room. Her roommate's phone was charging on the kitchen counter. She grabbed it, dialed Anton's number from memory, and held it to her ear.

It rang. Once. Twice.

She hung up immediately. He had not blocked her number from the network. He had specifically blocked her. He had convicted her in his mind and shut the door. He did not want her explanation.

Just then, her own phone vibrated in her hand. It was Hayden.

Francesca cleared her throat, forcing the tremor out of her voice. She answered. "Hey, Hay."

"Fran, did you get home okay?" Hayden's voice was warm and full of concern. "That rain was awful. You didn't wait too long for your car, did you?"

Tears pricked the back of Francesca's eyes. She squeezed her eyes shut. "No, I got one right away. I'm home. Just got out of the shower."

"Okay, good. Julian says hi. We'll see you this weekend."

"See you," Francesca whispered. She ended the call. She looked at the dark window, watching the rain streak down the glass. She made a silent vow. She would not let Anton destroy them. She would fight him.

Her phone chimed. A text message.

It was from an unknown number. But Francesca knew instantly who it was.

Fiancée? Good. I love a challenge.

The blood drained from Francesca's face. Her stomach plummeted. He had unblocked her just to send this. Her explanation had not stopped him. It had only poured gasoline on the fire. He knew the truth, and he did not care. It was a game to him.

A second text arrived a moment later.

I am giving you one last chance, Francesca. Stand with me, or stand with them and burn together.

Her lungs seized. She stared at the glowing words, the sheer malice of the threat suffocating her. He was promising total destruction.

Francesca's hands stopped shaking. She pressed her lips into a thin, white line. She tapped the screen, deleted the conversation, and blocked the unknown number.

It was her answer. She would burn.