Annette shot up from the sofa.

Her knee slammed into the low glass table. A tall wine glass tipped over and shattered against the floor. The sharp sound of breaking crystal echoed in the silent room.

Nobody moved.

Annette ignored the broken glass at her feet. She stared straight into Declan's eyes. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.

"For the record," Annette said, her voice raspy but violently steady. "I don't regret a single choice I made five years ago."

The words hit the room like a bomb.

The cold indifference in Declan's eyes vanished. It was instantly replaced by a raging, violent inferno.

Declan kicked the coffee table.

The heavy glass table screeched against the floor, sliding two feet away from him.

He stood up. The dark, suffocating aura radiating from his body made the hair on Annette's arms stand up. He didn't say a word. He turned his back and walked out of the VIP lounge, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall.

Ciera shot Annette a look of pure murder. She grabbed her designer clutch and ran after him.

The party atmosphere was completely dead.

Leo rubbed his face, sighed heavily, and walked toward the front desk to pay for the broken glass.

Clara grabbed Annette's arm and pulled her into a small, private alcove near the coat check. She shut the heavy velvet curtain behind them.

The second they were hidden, Annette's knees gave out. She slid down the wall and hit the floor, burying her face in her hands. Her body shook with silent, dry sobs.

Clara crouched down and handed her a glass of lukewarm water.

"Why did you do that?" Clara asked, her voice tight. "Why did you provoke him?"

Annette took a shaky breath. "I'm tired of being looked at like a circus animal."

Clara bit her lip. She pulled her phone out of her purse and tapped the screen. She held it out to Annette.

It was the digital front page of the Wall Street Journal.

The headline screamed in bold black letters: Declan Carter Assumes Full Control of Carter Family Trust.

"He's not the boy who ate street hotdogs with you in Brooklyn anymore, Annie," Clara whispered. "His net worth is a number normal people can't even comprehend. He owns half the commercial real estate in Manhattan. The mayor answers his calls on the first ring."

Annette stared at the screen. She read the words 'corporate acquisitions' and 'billion-dollar mergers'.

Her stomach cramped violently again. Every word on that screen was a physical reminder. She had destroyed her own life, her own reputation, just to make sure his security clearance wasn't ruined by her father's criminal record.

She had bought him this throne with her blood.

Annette pushed the phone away. She forced her face into a mask of indifference.

"That has nothing to do with me," Annette lied.

Clara looked at the frayed collar of Annette's dress. She sighed. "Just... stay away from Ciera."

"I need to use the restroom to fix my makeup," Annette said, pulling herself up from the floor.

She walked out of the alcove. The hallway was completely empty. The dim yellow wall sconces cast long, lonely shadows on the carpet.

Annette leaned her back against the cold wall. She reached into the deep pocket of her coat and pulled out a small, unlabeled white plastic bottle.

Her hands shook so badly she almost dropped it. She popped the cap, shook two heavy pills into her palm, and swallowed them dry. The pills were large and chalky, scratching her throat as she forced them down. A wave of nausea immediately rolled in her stomach, a familiar, bitter cost for a few hours of chemical peace.

Suddenly, a cold draft hit her ankles.

At the end of the hallway, a heavy metal fire door creaked open. The wind howled through the crack.

Annette felt suffocated by the heavy air inside the restaurant. She needed real oxygen.

She walked toward the door and pushed it open.

She stepped out onto the rusted metal platform of the fire escape. There were no streetlights here. Only the faint, bleeding neon colors from the distant Manhattan skyline cut through the pitch-black darkness.

The cold rain hit her face. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

The second she exhaled, a massive, muscular arm shot out from the absolute darkness.

A large hand clamped around her waist like a steel vice.

Annette screamed.

The sound was instantly cut off as she was violently shoved backward. Her spine slammed against the rough, freezing brick wall of the alley. The jagged bricks scraped painfully against her shoulder blades.

A heavy, suffocating scent of expensive cedarwood cologne mixed with raw tobacco flooded her lungs.

The faint red glow of a distant neon sign flickered, illuminating the face of her attacker.

It was Declan.

His tie was ripped loose. The top three buttons of his crisp white shirt were torn open. He looked like a feral animal that had finally snapped its chain.

Annette panicked. She shoved her hands against his hard chest, trying to push him away.

Declan didn't even flinch. He grabbed both of her wrists with one massive hand and pinned them forcefully above her head against the wet bricks.

He stepped into her space. His tall, broad body completely caged her in. He forced his knee between her thighs, spreading her legs slightly to press his hips flush against hers. He cut off every single avenue of escape.

His chest he heave. His hot, ragged breath washed over the sensitive skin of her neck, sending violent, involuntary shivers down her spine.

Annette's brain short-circuited. Five years ago, on a fire escape just like this, he had kissed her with so much devotion it made her cry.

But there was no devotion in his gray eyes now. There was only a dark, violent need to destroy.

"You don't regret it?" Declan hissed, his voice vibrating against her skin. "Then why can't you even look me in the eye, Annette?"

Annette turned her face away. She clamped her lips shut. Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

Her silence shattered the last thread of his sanity.

Declan released her wrists. His hand shot up and gripped her jaw. His long fingers dug into her cheeks, forcing her face forward.

Before she could gasp, his mouth crashed down onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was an assault. It was a violent collision of teeth and rage.

He bit down on her bottom lip. Hard.

The sharp pain made Annette gasp, and he used the opportunity to force his tongue into her mouth. He devoured her, stealing all the oxygen from her lungs.

The taste of copper exploded in their mouths. He had bitten her lip so hard it was bleeding.

Annette thrashed against him. She shook her head wildly, but his grip on her jaw was like iron. He swallowed her whimpers, kissing her deeper, punishing her for every day of the last five years.

The raw, masculine heat of his body pressed against her freezing, wet clothes. The contrast was agonizing.

A single, hot tear escaped Annette's eye. It rolled down her cheek and dropped onto the back of Declan's hand.

The tear was scalding. Declan's entire body went completely rigid.

For a fraction of a second, his grip loosened.

Annette didn't hesitate. She bit down on his tongue with all the strength she had left.

Declan let out a deep, guttural groan of pain. He tore his mouth away and stumbled half a step back.

Annette slumped against the brick wall. Her chest heaved violently as she gasped for air. She lifted the back of her trembling hand and wiped the smear of blood from her swollen lips.

Declan stood in the darkness. He wiped his own mouth with his thumb. He looked at the blood on his skin, then looked up at her. His eyes were pitch black.

"Playing the victim again?" Declan sneered, his voice dripping with absolute disgust. "Or did that old man you sold yourself to just not train you right?"

The words were a physical blade. They gutted her. They sliced through her stomach and shredded her dignity into bloody ribbons.

Annette let out a choked cry. She raised her hand and swung at his face with everything she had.

Declan caught her wrist in mid-air. His grip was brutal.

He yanked her forward, leaning down until his mouth was a fraction of an inch from her ear.

"Get out of my city," Declan whispered. The deadly calm in his voice was more terrifying than his yelling. "Get out of my sight. Because if I see you again, I will make you wish you were dead."

He dropped her wrist like it was infected.

He turned around, kicked the heavy fire door open, and walked back into the bright, warm hallway without looking back.

The heavy metal door slammed shut.

Annette was left completely alone in the freezing darkness. Her legs gave out. She slid down the brick wall and collapsed onto the rusted iron grate, curling into a tight, shivering ball.

Ciera sat in the back of her stretched Lincoln Town Car. The rain hammered against the tinted windows.

She stared out at the entrance of the restaurant, her manicured fingers tapping anxiously against the stem of her champagne flute.

The glass doors pushed open. Declan walked out.

He didn't wait for the valet. He ignored the doorman holding out a massive black umbrella. He just walked straight out into the torrential rain.

Under the harsh glare of the streetlights, Ciera saw his face. His expression was hollow, violent, and completely isolated. She saw the faint smear of blood on his bottom lip.

Ciera gripped her glass so hard the crystal groaned.

Her mind violently snapped back to a thunderstorm five years ago.

She remembered the frantic phone call from the Carter estate manager. She remembered running into Declan's penthouse.

The massive living room had looked like a war zone. Priceless antique vases were shattered into dust. Paintings were ripped from the walls.

Declan had been standing in the middle of the room. He was barefoot. He was standing on a carpet of jagged glass shards. The thick Persian rug was soaked in his blood.

He was clutching his phone in his bleeding hands, staring at a video. It was the security footage Annette had faked-footage of her walking into a hotel room with a wealthy older man.

Ciera had tried to touch his arm. Declan had shoved her away so hard she hit the wall. He had thrown himself against the floor-to-ceiling windows, screaming a sound so guttural and broken it didn't even sound human.

For three months after that night, Declan didn't eat. He didn't speak. The Carter family had to hire a private medical team to hook him up to IV bags just to keep his organs from shutting down. He was placed on a 24-hour suicide watch.

A cheap, nobody girl from Brooklyn had almost killed the heir to the Carter empire.

Ciera blinked, pulling herself out of the memory. She took a deep breath and pulled out her phone.

She dialed her private investigator.

"Find out where Annette is working," Ciera ordered, her voice cold and sharp. "And find out exactly where she lives. Now."

Inside the restaurant lobby, Annette finally pulled herself together. She walked to the coat check, grabbed her wet trench coat, and practically ran out the front doors.

Leo chased after her, holding an umbrella.

"Annette, wait! I'm so sorry about tonight," Leo said, handing her the umbrella.

Annette forced the corners of her mouth up into a painful, fake smile. "It's fine, Leo. I'll be at the church tomorrow for the rehearsal."

She turned and walked into the freezing rain.

She didn't walk toward the subway. She walked three blocks south, her shoes squishing with cold water, until she found a 24-hour pharmacy.

The fluorescent lights inside the store burned her eyes. She walked straight to the cosmetics aisle and grabbed a tube of heavy-duty, industrial concealer.

She stood in front of the small security mirror, her hands shaking as she dabbed the thick paste over the violent, red bite mark on her swollen lip.

Suddenly, her phone vibrated violently in her pocket.

She pulled it out. The caller ID showed a specific 1-800 number. It was the direct line to the Intensive Care Unit billing department.

Annette's heart stopped. She swiped the screen, pressing the phone to her ear.

"Is it my dad? Did his heart rate drop?" Annette asked, her voice cracking with panic.

"Ms. Park," a cold, robotic female voice said. "Due to the severe overdue balance, we can no longer sustain his care in our private ICU. If payment isn't received, we will have to initiate a transfer to a state-funded long-term care facility by tomorrow."

Annette's knees buckled. She leaned her weight against the glass display case.

"Please," Annette begged, tears finally spilling over her eyelashes. "Please, give me three more days. I'll get the money. I promise."

"Tomorrow morning, Ms. Park."

The line went dead. The dial tone buzzed in Annette's ear like a flatline.

She dropped the phone. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass of the pharmacy window, staring out at the dark, wet street. She was drowning, and there was no one left to save her.

Across the street, parked in the shadows of an alley, a black Range Rover idled quietly.

The driver's side window rolled down halfway.

A massive man with a thick neck covered in gang tattoos sat in the driver's seat. He chewed on a cheap cigar. His dark, predatory eyes were locked onto Annette's crying figure in the pharmacy window.