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.

Annette screamed as Declan yanked open the heavy door of the Bentley.

He practically threw her into the passenger seat. The impact knocked the wind out of her lungs. The buttery-soft leather did nothing to cushion the blow to her spine.

Before she could scramble out, the heavy door slammed shut in her face.

Declan stalked around the hood of the car, his suit completely soaked with rain, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He ripped open the driver's door and threw himself into the seat.

Click.

The electronic central locking system engaged. The sound was as final as a prison cell slamming shut.

Annette grabbed the chrome door handle and pulled frantically. It didn't budge. A small red light blinked on the door panel. The child locks were engaged.

"Let me out!" Annette yelled, her voice bordering on hysteria. "Are you insane? Unlock the door!"

Declan didn't look at her. He slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.

The massive V12 engine let out a guttural roar. The Bentley shot out of the alley and onto the wet Brooklyn streets like a bullet.

The violent acceleration threw Annette back against the headrest. She gasped, her hands instinctively flying up to grab the seatbelt and click it into place.

The interior of the car was pitch black. The only light came from the streetlamps flashing rapidly across Declan's face.

His jaw was locked so tight the muscles twitched. His hands gripped the leather steering wheel with enough force to bend the metal underneath. He was driving dangerously fast, weaving through the slick traffic with terrifying precision.

The air inside the cabin was suffocating. The heavy scent of his cedarwood cologne mixed with the smell of rain and raw anger.

Annette's body began to break down under the extreme stress.

A sharp, stabbing pain ripped through her stomach. The gut-wrenching physical agony she had been fighting all day finally overpowered her.

She curled inward, wrapping both arms tightly around her abdomen. She pressed her forehead against her knees, squeezing her eyes shut. Cold sweat broke out across her forehead. She bit her lip to keep from crying out in pain.

The Bentley slammed on its brakes at a red light. The tires screeched against the wet asphalt.

Declan turned his head. He looked at her curled up in the seat, shaking.

"Give me your address," Declan ordered. His voice was cold, flat, and completely devoid of emotion.

Annette couldn't breathe through the pain. "Just... drop me at the subway."

"Address. Now."

Annette swallowed hard. Her pride was already shattered. There was nothing left to protect.

She weakly whispered the name of a street deep in the worst, most crime-ridden slum of Queens.

Declan's hands froze on the steering wheel.

His pupils dilated. A flash of pure, unfiltered shock broke through his mask of anger.

He thought she had left him for a billionaire. He thought she was living in a penthouse on the Upper East Side, dripping in diamonds.

The address she just gave him was a place where people got stabbed for twenty dollars.

The light turned green.

Declan didn't say a word. He hit the gas and violently jerked the steering wheel, changing direction toward Queens.

For forty agonizing minutes, the car was dead silent.

Annette rested her hot cheek against the cold glass of the window. She watched the city change. The towering glass skyscrapers of Manhattan faded into the crumbling brick buildings, graffiti-covered walls, and overflowing dumpsters of her neighborhood.

The Bentley slowed down, rolling over deep potholes.

Declan pulled up to the curb in front of a decaying, five-story apartment building. The front door was missing. The streetlights were all smashed.

A group of men in oversized hoodies were smoking weed on the stoop. They stopped and stared hungrily at the half-million-dollar car.

Declan stared out the windshield at the rotting building. The veins in his neck bulged.

He slowly turned his head to look at Annette. His eyes slowly dragged over her cheap coat, her exhausted face, and the slum outside the window.

Annette unbuckled her seatbelt. She couldn't look at him. The shame was a physical weight crushing her chest.

"We're here," she whispered, reaching for the door handle. It was still locked.

She turned to him, her eyes begging. "Please. Just open the door."

Declan leaned across the center console. He invaded her space, trapping her against the door.

He raised his hand. His thumb roughly brushed against the scratch on her cheek.

"Is this it?" Declan whispered, his voice dripping with absolute disgust. "Is this the glamorous life you destroyed me for, Annette?"

The question was the final nail in her coffin.