The bass at The Apex Club was a physical force, vibrating through the floorboards and rattling Eve's teeth. The air was thick with smoke, expensive cologne, and bad decisions.

Eve sat at the VIP bar, three empty martini glasses lined up in front of her like soldiers who had died in battle. She stared at the amber liquid in her fourth glass. Her vision was starting to tunnel, the edges of the world blurring into a soft, fuzzy gray.

"Ma'am, maybe you should slow down," the bartender said, eyeing her black card nervously.

"Shut up," Eve slurred. She slapped the card on the counter. "Pour."

The alcohol was burning through her system, stripping away her inhibitions, melting the icy composure she had worn for twenty-six years. She wanted to numb the voice in her head that kept repeating Andre's words. Placeholder. Stand-in. Burden.

To her right, the heavy velvet ropes of the ultra-VIP section parted. A group of men in bespoke suits walked out, radiating power and arrogance.

Leading them was Charls Wiley.

He looked irritated. He had just spent three hours negotiating a hostile takeover of a tech startup, and the celebratory drinks were giving him a headache. He adjusted his cufflinks, his expression one of bored disdain as he scanned the chaotic club. He wanted to go home, drink a glass of water, and sleep in his soundproof penthouse.

His gaze swept over the bar and stopped.

He frowned. That woman... slumped over the counter in a dress that looked like liquid gold... was that Eve Franks?

It couldn't be. Eve Franks didn't get drunk in public. Eve Franks didn't have a hair out of place. This woman looked like a beautiful shipwreck.

He took a step closer, curiosity overriding his instinct to leave.

Eve felt eyes on her. She turned her head slowly, the movement making the room spin. Through the haze of vodka and tears, the figure standing there was tall, broad-shouldered, and dark-haired.

Her brain, desperate for comfort, misfired. The sharp lines of Charls's face softened in her vision. The cold grey eyes looked warmer, deeper.

He came, her mind whispered. He came to apologize.

"You..." Eve whispered. She slid off the high stool. Her heels wobbled, and her ankle twisted.

Charls saw her stumble. His body reacted before his brain did. He stepped forward, reaching out to steady her just as she pitched forward.

Eve collided with his chest. It was hard, solid, warm.

She grabbed the lapels of his suit jacket, her fingers digging into the expensive wool. She buried her face in his shirt, inhaling deeply. He smelled of sandalwood and cold winter air. It wasn't Andre's scent, but her drunk brain didn't care. It was the scent of a man who was here.

"Eve?" Charls's voice was stiff. He tried to peel her off. "What the hell are you doing? Let go."

Eve looked up. Tears were streaming down her face, ruining her makeup. Her eyes were wide, glassy, and filled with a devastating amount of adoration.

She reached up, her palm cupping his jaw. Her thumb brushed over his lip.

The crowd around them went silent. Phones were raised. The flash of a camera went off.

"Why did you say those things?" Eve sobbed, her voice cracking. "Why did you want to leave me? I love you so much."

The silence in the club was deafening. Even the DJ seemed to have lowered the volume.

Charls froze. His eyes widened in genuine shock. He looked around, seeing the faces of half of New York's social elite staring at them. He saw the phones recording.

I love you so much.

She was talking to him. Eve Franks, his sworn enemy, the woman who had sued him three times last year, was confessing her undying love in the middle of a nightclub.

"Eve," Charls hissed, grabbing her wrists. "You are drunk. Look at me. I am Charls Wiley."

"I know who you are," Eve cried, clinging tighter. "You're mine. You're my star."

Charls's face went dark. He felt a vein in his temple throb.

This was a disaster. This was a PR nuclear bomb. If he pushed her away now, the headlines would read Wiley Assaults Drunk Franks Heiress. If he left her here, she'd be eaten alive by the press, and her mother, Huldah, would blame him for not intervening.

He looked down at her. She was a mess. She was vulnerable. And for some godforsaken reason, she was looking at him like he was the only person in the world who mattered.

"Damn it," Charls muttered.

"Let go, Eve," Charls commanded, his voice a low growl near her ear. He tried to pry her fingers from his lapel, but her grip was surprisingly strong, fueled by hysteria.

"No!" Eve wailed, burying her face back into his chest. "Don't leave me again! I'll be better! I won't be boring!"

The whispers around them were turning into excited shouts.

"Did she just say she won't be boring?"

"Is she begging him not to dump her?"

"I thought they hated each other!"

A paparazzi photographer, bold and hungry, stepped past the velvet rope, his camera flashing rapidly in their faces. Click. Click. Click.

Charls was blinded for a second. His Chief of Staff, Harrison, materialized from the shadows, shoving his hand in front of the lens. "Back off! No photos!"

But it was too late. The damage was done.

Charls looked down at Eve. She was shaking against him, oblivious to the sharks circling. He felt a surge of protectiveness that annoyed him. He hated her, theoretically. But he hated the vultures with cameras more.

"Harrison," Charls barked over the noise. "Clear a path. Now."

"Sir, the car is out back, but the alley is blocked by a delivery truck. We have to go out the front."

Charls cursed. He couldn't drag her. She couldn't walk.

He sighed, a sound of pure resignation. He bent down, swept his arm behind her knees, and hoisted her up into his arms.

Eve gasped as the world tilted. She instinctively threw her arms around his neck, her face pressing into the crook of his shoulder.

"You're holding me," she murmured into his skin, her voice wet with tears. "I knew you still loved me."

"Shut up, Eve," Charls gritted out.

He marched through the crowd, his face a mask of icy fury. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, a mixture of awe and shock on their faces. Charls Wiley, the Ice King of Wall Street, carrying his rival like a bride.

Harrison and two bodyguards formed a wedge, pushing people aside.

They burst out of the club doors onto the sidewalk. The night air was crisp. A wall of paparazzi was waiting. The flashes erupted like a lightning storm.

"Mr. Wiley! Is it true you two are engaged?"

"Eve! Why are you crying?"

"Is this a merger or a marriage?"

As Charls moved toward his SUV, he saw Eve's driver, Thomas, trying to push through the throng of photographers. "Ms. Franks!" Thomas yelled, his face a mask of alarm. Charls's bodyguard moved swiftly, intercepting him. "Sir, Mr. Wiley will see to her safety. Follow us to the hospital." The bodyguard's voice was low but firm, an undeniable command that left Thomas frozen in place, watching as Charls used his hand to press Eve's face firmly into his chest, shielding her from the photos. It looked like a romantic gesture. In reality, he just didn't want the world to see her snot-streaked face.

"Move!" Harrison shouted, opening the back door of the waiting SUV.

Charls practically threw Eve onto the leather bench seat and climbed in after her. He slammed the door shut, cutting off the blinding lights.

"Go," he ordered the driver. "Just drive."

The car surged forward.

Inside the dim cabin, the smell of vodka and Eve's expensive floral perfume was suffocating. Eve slumped against the door, her sobbing quieting down to hiccuping breaths.

"Where are we taking her?" the driver asked, eyeing them in the rearview mirror.

"Franks Estate," Charls said, rubbing his temples.

At the word Estate, Eve jolted upright. Her eyes flew open, wild and panicked.

"No!" she screamed. "Not home! I can't go home!"

The emptiness of her apartment, the gifts she had bought for Andre, the memories-it was a haunted house to her now.

"Eve, stop it," Charls said, his patience snapping. "You're drunk. You need to sleep it off."

"I won't go back there!" She lunged toward the front seat. "Stop the car! Let me out!"

"Hey!" Charls grabbed her waist, hauling her back. "Sit down!"

"You don't understand!" She struggled, her elbow catching him in the ribs. She was stronger than she looked. "He's everywhere in that house! I have to find him! I have to ask him why!"

"Ask who?" Charls demanded, pinning her arms to her sides. "Ask me? I'm right here!"

"Not you!" Eve cried, her logic fracturing. She looked at him, and for a second, the illusion broke. She saw Charls. Not Andre.

The confusion made her panic worse. "Let me out!"

She reached for the door handle. The car was moving at 50 miles per hour.

"Don't touch that!" Charls lunged across her to lock the door.

In the chaos, Eve's knee hit the driver's arm hard. The steering wheel jerked to the left.

"Watch out!" Harrison yelled from the front passenger seat.

The SUV swerved violently across the lane. The tires screeched, a horrific sound of rubber tearing against asphalt.

Through the windshield, headlights appeared out of nowhere. A delivery truck was merging, too close, too fast.

Time seemed to slow down for Charls. He saw the truck's grill. He saw the driver's terrified face. He felt the SUV begin to tip as his driver overcorrected.

He didn't think about his portfolio. He didn't think about his legacy.

He looked at Eve. She was frozen, her hand still reaching for the door handle, her eyes wide with sudden, sobering terror.

Charls threw himself across the seat. He wrapped his body around hers, shielding her head with his chest, his hand cupping the back of her skull.

"Hold on!"

CRASH.

The impact was deafening. Metal crumpled like paper. Glass exploded inward in a glittering shower. The SUV spun, hit the median, and rolled.

The world became a washing machine of violence. Charls felt his shoulder slam against the door pillar. A sharp, sickening crack echoed through his arm. He gritted his teeth, refusing to let go of Eve. He buried her face into his coat, taking the brunt of the glass shards raining down on them.

The car came to a rest upside down.

Silence. Absolute, terrifying silence. Then, the hiss of steam and the drip of fluids.

"Eve?" Charls whispered. His voice was raspy. Blood was dripping into his eye from a cut on his forehead.

Eve didn't answer. She was limp in his arms, her head resting heavily against his broken shoulder.

"Eve!" Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through his shock. He tried to shift, but his left arm screamed in agony.

"Sir?" Harrison's voice came from the front, groggy. "Are you okay?"

"Check her," Charls gasped. "Call 911. And check the driver."

Sirens were already wailing in the distance. Harrison, groaning, unbuckled himself and crawled toward the front. "Driver's unconscious, sir, pinned by the airbag. But he's breathing."

The emergency room at Lenox Hill was a blur of fluorescent lights and shouting.

Charls sat on a gurney in the hallway, refusing to lie down. His left arm was in a temporary sling, his expensive suit ruined, stained with blood and oil.

"Mr. Wiley, you need a CT scan," a nurse insisted.

"I'm fine," Charls snapped, though he was dizzy. "Where is she?"

Down the hall, behind double doors, a team of doctors was working on Eve.

The doors burst open. Silas Franks ran in, looking disheveled, followed closely by Huldah Franks. Huldah looked impeccable, even at 2 AM, but her face was pale.

Silas spotted Charls. He marched over, grabbing Charls by his good lapel.

"What did you do to her?" Silas roared, shaking him. "If she doesn't wake up, I will kill you, Wiley!"

"Get off him, Silas," Huldah commanded sharply. She looked at Charls, assessing the damage. "Is she alive?"

"She's unconscious," Charls said, his voice flat. He pushed Silas away. "Head trauma. The doctors are running scans now."

"Why was she in your car?" Huldah asked, her eyes narrowing. "The internet is saying you two were... intimate at a club."

Charls laughed, a dark, humorless sound. "She was drunk. I was trying to stop her from doing something stupid. She grabbed the wheel."

The doctor emerged from the trauma room. He pulled off his surgical mask.

"Family of Ms. Franks?"

"Here," Huldah stepped forward. "I'm her mother."

"She has a severe concussion and some bruising," the doctor said. "Physically, she will recover. But the impact to the temporal lobe was significant. There is swelling. We won't know the extent of the neurological damage until she wakes up."

Charls let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. She was alive.

He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a throbbing pain in his arm and a strange, heavy weight in his chest. He kept seeing her face right before the crash. The heartbreak.

Who hurt her? he wondered. Who made Eve Franks drink herself into oblivion?