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.

The smell of bleach and sterile alcohol burned Annette's nostrils.

It was 6:00 AM. Annette stood outside the glass wall of the Brooklyn Public Hospital's Intensive Care Unit. She hadn't slept for a single second. Dark purple bags hung heavily under her eyes.

Through the glass, she stared at her father, Douglas Park. He looked like a hollowed-out shell. Tubes snaked down his throat and into his arms. The rhythmic hiss of the ventilator was the only proof he was still alive.

The attending physician walked up to her. He didn't look her in the eye. He just handed her a long, itemized printout.

"Noon, Annette," the doctor said quietly. "If the funds aren't in the system by noon, the nutritional IVs stop."

Annette took the paper. Her fingers trembled. Fifty thousand dollars. It was a mountain she couldn't climb.

She turned and walked blindly down the hallway, pushing open the heavy door to the emergency stairwell.

She sat on the concrete steps and pulled out her phone. She scrolled through her contacts, staring at the names of people she could no longer ask for help.

Suddenly, the heavy metal door at the bottom of the stairs was kicked open.

The loud bang echoed up the concrete shaft.

A thick cloud of cheap cigar smoke floated up the stairs.

Mitch Kozlowski walked up the steps. He was the man from the black Range Rover. Two massive men in cheap leather jackets followed closely behind him.

Annette shot up to her feet. Her back hit the cold concrete wall. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs.

Mitch stopped two steps below her. He blew a ring of smoke directly into her face. His eyes slowly dragged up and down her body, stripping her naked with his gaze. It made Annette's skin crawl with physical revulsion.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded, thick legal document. He tossed it. It hit Annette's chest and fell to the floor.

It was the civil restitution order.

"Three million dollars, sweetheart," Mitch sneered, his gold tooth flashing in the dim light. "That's what the judge said your daddy owes my family for putting a bullet in my uncle's head."

"He didn't do it," Annette hissed, her voice shaking with rage. "He was framed. And I'm going to prove it."

Mitch threw his head back and laughed. The sound was harsh and grating.

"A public defender making minimum wage is gonna beat the system?" Mitch mocked.

His laughter stopped instantly. He lunged forward.

His thick, calloused hand shot out and gripped Annette's jaw. His fingers dug into her skin so hard she felt her teeth grind together.

"Marry me. Sign the papers. Be a good, obedient little wife. My family thinks a pretty lawyer wife would look good for business. You're smart, you're beautiful, and you owe us. This is a way for you to pay your debt in full. You do that, and I sign a waiver for the three million. I'll even pay the fifty grand to keep your old man breathing today."

Annette's stomach violently revolted. She raised her hands and shoved his chest with all her might.

"You're out of your mind," Annette spat, wiping her jaw where he had touched her.

Mitch's eyes turned pitch black.

He pointed a thick finger toward the heavy door leading to the ICU. "Without my money, he dies like a dog today. You really gonna let that happen?"

Annette's chest heaved. Her fingernails bit into her palms until the skin broke again.

"I would rather sell my blood," Annette said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "I would rather borrow from the devil himself than sell my life to a piece of trash like you."

Mitch's face twisted into an ugly snarl.

He pulled his fist back and slammed it into the concrete wall, right next to Annette's head.

The impact sent a shower of sharp concrete dust and gravel flying. A jagged piece of stone sliced across Annette's cheekbone. A thin line of bright red blood instantly welled up on her pale skin.

Annette didn't flinch. She stared him down.

Mitch leaned in until his nose almost touched hers. "You have twenty-four hours. Tomorrow morning, I want a yes."

He turned and walked down the stairs, his goons following him.

The stairwell fell dead silent.

Annette's legs gave out. She collapsed onto the concrete step. She pressed her hands over her face, and a single, broken sob tore out of her throat.

She wiped her eyes aggressively. She picked up her phone.

She didn't hesitate. She dialed a number she had sworn she would never call. A number for a violent, underground loan shark in Queens.

The phone rang twice. A gruff voice answered.

The interest rate they demanded was financial suicide. They wanted the deed to her rundown apartment and a lien on her future wages.

"Yes," Annette said, her voice completely dead. "I accept the terms. I need the money wired in one hour."

She hung up the phone. She stood up, wiped the blood from her cheek, and walked out of the stairwell. She had sold her soul, but her father would live another day.