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.

The Legal Aid Society office in lower Manhattan was a chaotic, suffocating mess. Phones rang constantly. The smell of stale coffee and cheap printer ink hung heavy in the air.

Annette sat at her cramped desk. Her supervisor had just dropped three massive, overstuffed manila folders onto her keyboard.

"Public defense cases. I need the briefs filed by Friday," her boss barked before walking away.

Annette didn't complain. She opened the first file and stared at the blurry security footage of a juvenile robbery.

A coworker leaned over the cubicle wall and handed her a paper cup of black coffee.

"Jesus, Annie. What happened to your face?" he asked, pointing at the angry red scratch on her cheekbone.

Annette quickly pulled a strand of dark hair forward to cover the wound. "I tripped coming out of the subway. Hit the turnstile."

When the clock hit noon, the office emptied out for lunch.

Annette didn't eat. She stood up, locked her office door, and pulled down the blinds.

She got down on her knees and pulled a heavy, black briefcase from the very bottom of her filing cabinet. It had a physical combination lock.

She spun the dials. Click.

She opened the case. Inside were hundreds of documents, crime scene photos, and trial transcripts. It was the complete, unredacted file of her father's murder conviction.

She pulled out a glossy photo of Beth Vargas, the victim's wife. She pinned it to the corkboard hidden behind her office door.

She took a red marker and drew a thick, aggressive line connecting Beth's face to the name of the prosecution's star witness.

She knew they were lying. She knew Beth was sleeping with the witnesses to buy their testimony. But she needed hard, physical proof to break the perjury ring.

Suddenly, her cell phone vibrated violently against the desk.

Annette quickly flipped the corkboard around to hide the photos. She picked up the phone. It was Clara.

"Hey, the rehearsal isn't until-"

"He wants me to sign a prenup!" Clara screamed into the phone. Her voice was thick with tears and alcohol.

Annette frowned. "Clara? Where are you?"

"Fifty pages, Annette!" Clara sobbed. "His family lawyers sent it this morning. If we divorce, I get nothing. No shares in the trust. They even put a clause in about child custody. He doesn't trust me!"

Annette's lawyer instincts kicked in. "Clara, listen to me. Do not sign anything. Let me read the clauses first. Where are you right now?"

"I left. I'm at that gross dive bar we used to go to in Williamsburg. I'm drinking tequila," Clara cried.

Annette looked at the clock. It was 3:00 PM. She couldn't leave her best friend alone in a dangerous Brooklyn dive bar while she was drunk and emotional.

"Stay right there. I'm coming," Annette said.

She grabbed her trench coat and ran out of the building.

The rain had turned into a freezing, miserable drizzle. It took Annette three different subway transfers to reach the edge of Williamsburg.

She pushed open the heavy, rotting wooden door of the dive bar.

The smell of stale beer, sweat, and vomit hit her like a physical wall. Heavy metal music blasted from the blown-out speakers, vibrating the floorboards beneath her feet.

The bar was dark, lit only by flickering neon beer signs.

Annette pushed through the crowd of leather-clad bikers and drunk college students. She scanned the sticky booths.

She spotted Clara slumped over a table in the darkest corner of the bar, a shot glass in her hand.

Annette rushed over. She grabbed Clara's wrist and pried the glass from her fingers.

"Clara, get up. We are leaving right now," Annette ordered, pulling on her arm.

Clara whined and tried to pull away. "No! I'm not marrying a man who thinks I'm a gold digger!"

Before Annette could pull Clara to her feet, a massive shadow fell over the table, blocking out the red neon light.

Annette looked up.

Standing right in front of her, looking completely out of place in a bespoke, charcoal-gray Tom Ford suit, was Declan.

He looked like a god of destruction standing in a garbage dump.

He looked down at Annette, his gray eyes sweeping over her wet hair and the panicked look on her face.

The corner of his mouth curled into a cruel, razor-sharp smirk.

"What a coincidence," Declan said, his voice cutting through the heavy metal music like a knife.

Annette's body went completely rigid. Her muscles locked up.

She instinctively turned her head to the side, letting her wet hair fall forward to hide the angry red scratch Mitch had left on her cheek.

Declan's eyes were like heat-seeking missiles. He caught the flinching movement instantly. His gaze locked onto the side of her face. His dark eyebrows pulled together in a sharp, dangerous frown.

But he didn't ask. He forced his expression back into a mask of pure ice.

He looked down at Clara, who was drooling slightly onto the sticky wooden table.

"Leo is waiting in the car outside," Declan said to Clara. His voice was completely devoid of sympathy. "I was with him discussing the final trust details for the wedding when you called. He insisted I come handle this."

Clara lifted her head. Her mascara was running down her cheeks. "Tell Leo he's a coward! Tell him to take his money and choke on it!"

Declan's jaw tightened. "The prenuptial agreement was drafted by the Carter family trust lawyers. It's standard procedure to protect family assets."

He slowly shifted his eyes back to Annette. His gaze was heavy and suffocating.

"After all," Declan said, his voice dropping an octave, dripping with venom. "There are far too many women in this world who will do absolutely anything for a paycheck."

The words hit Annette like a physical punch to the stomach. Her lungs contracted. She bit down on the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood, using the physical pain to stop herself from crying.

She didn't say a word. She bent down, wrapped Clara's arm around her own neck, and tried to haul the dead weight out of the booth.

Clara stumbled. Her foot caught on the leg of the table.

Both women pitched forward toward the filthy, beer-soaked floor.

Declan moved with terrifying speed. His large hand shot out and clamped around Annette's elbow, stopping her fall instantly.

The heat of his palm burned through the thin, wet fabric of her trench coat. It felt like a branding iron against her skin.

Annette reacted like she had been burned. She violently yanked her arm out of his grip, stumbling backward.

Declan's hand hung in the air for a second. His eyes darkened into a terrifying, stormy black. The rejection infuriated him.

He stepped past Annette, completely ignoring her. He bent down, scooped Clara up, and threw her over his broad shoulder like a sack of flour.

He turned and started walking toward the exit.

Annette had no choice but to follow him through the packed, sweaty crowd.

As they neared the door, Annette accidentally bumped her shoulder into a massive man wearing a leather biker vest.

The biker spilled his beer down his shirt. He spun around, his face red with rage.

"Watch it, bitch!" the biker yelled. He reached out his thick, greasy hand to grab the collar of Annette's coat.

Declan stopped dead in his tracks.

He didn't even drop Clara. He just turned around, his left hand shooting out with lethal precision. He grabbed the biker's thick wrist.

Declan twisted. The biker's face contorted in a silent scream as his wrist bent at an unnatural angle. He dropped to his knees, the sound of his agony completely swallowed by the wall of music.

Declan stood over him. He looked at the screaming man with the cold, dead eyes of a sociopath.

"Move," Declan commanded softly.

The crowd of bikers instantly parted, terrified by the sheer, violent aura radiating from the man in the suit.

They walked out into the freezing rain.

A black Maybach was idling at the curb. Leo jumped out, looking frantic.

Declan dumped Clara into the back seat without a word. He turned to Leo. "Handle your own mess next time, Leo."

Leo nodded profusely, shooting Annette an apologetic look before jumping into the car and speeding off into the night.

Annette stood alone on the wet sidewalk with Declan. The rain soaked through her clothes, making her shiver violently.

She pulled her coat tighter around her body. "Thank you," she whispered to the pavement.

She turned to walk toward the subway station.

"Did your new sugar daddy do that to your face?" Declan's voice cracked like a whip through the rain.

Annette froze.

The humiliation and the exhaustion finally boiled over into pure, blinding rage. She spun around.

She looked him dead in the eye.

"Yes," Annette lied, her voice shaking with anger. "And even getting hit by him is better than spending another second pretending I ever loved you."

Declan's face went completely blank.

Then, he snapped.

He lunged forward, grabbed her wrist in a crushing grip, and dragged her toward a black Bentley parked in the shadows of the alley.