The rain in Tribeca was relentless. It wasn't a cleansing rain; it was cold, dirty, and bit into the skin. Aria wandered the slick streets, her bare feet numb against the concrete. She had managed to button her coat over her pajamas, but the silk offered no protection against the October chill.

Passersby gave her wide berths. In New York, a woman wandering barefoot in a trench coat at midnight wasn't a tragedy; she was a crazy person to be avoided.

She turned down a narrow alley, drawn by the faint hum of bass and the glow of a neon sign: The Blind Tiger. It felt less like a public bar and more like a private secret, the kind of place that operated on its own time.

The bouncer, a mountain of a man, looked her up and down. He saw the frantic look in her eyes, but he also saw the coat-Burberry, current season. He stepped aside.

Aria pushed through the heavy velvet curtains. The blast of jazz music and body heat hit her like a physical wall, disorienting her senses. The air smelled of expensive perfume, cigar smoke, and old wood.

She stumbled to the bar, ignoring the stares of the well-dressed patrons who swirled their martinis. She slapped her hand on the mahogany counter.

"Whiskey," she rasped. "The strongest you have."

The bartender, a man with a handlebar mustache and tired eyes, eyed her skeptically. But he reached for a bottle and poured a glass of amber liquid.

Aria downed it in one burn. She slammed the glass down. The liquid fire settled in her stomach, warring with the nausea.

"Another," she demanded.

She drank three more in rapid succession. The edges of her pain began to blur. The image of Ignacio and the blonde woman became fuzzy, less sharp.

"Card," the bartender said, tapping the bar. "To keep the tab open."

Aria patted her pockets. Her hands felt clumsy, disconnected from her brain.

Empty.

She had no phone. No wallet. No keys.

Panic rose in her throat, tasting of bile and whiskey. "I... I don't..."

The bartender's face hardened. He reached for the bottle to pull it away. "No money, no service, sweetheart."

A shadow fell over her. A tall figure in a bespoke charcoal suit settled onto the stool next to her. He didn't look at her; he looked straight ahead at the rows of bottles.

"Put it on my tab," the man said. His voice was a deep baritone, smooth and commanding.

The bartender's attitude shifted instantly. He nodded respectfully. "Of course, Mr. Justice."

Aria turned to look at him. Her vision swam. She saw a sharp, chiseled jawline. Dark, intelligent eyes that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. He radiated an aura of danger, like a predator resting before a hunt.

She squinted, drunkenly assessing the gold cufflinks that caught the dim light.

She leaned in too close, invading his personal space. She smelled rain and something darker, musk and power.

"Are you..." She poked his chest with a wobbly finger. The fabric of his suit was incredibly soft. "Are you a prince?"

The man raised an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth twitched. "No."

"You look expensive," she slurred.

Aria tried to stand up to get a better look at him, but her legs, betrayed by the alcohol and the cold, gave way instantly.

She braced for the impact of the floor, but it never came.

Strong arms caught her. The movement was lightning fast. One arm hooked around her waist, the other supported her back. The contact sent a jolt through her, a spark of electricity that cut through the drunken haze.

He lifted her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing. Her head lolled against his shoulder. It was hard, muscular. Secure.

"Cab?" the bartender asked.

The man shook his head. "No need."

He carried her toward the back of the room, toward a door marked Private.

Aria mumbled into his expensive lapel, her words slurring together. "Ignacio is a pig. A cheating pig."

The man didn't respond. He kicked open the door to the private lounge, shutting out the noise of the jazz and the world.

He deposited her gently onto a velvet chaise lounge. The room was quiet, dimly lit by sconces that cast a warm, golden glow.

Burke Justice loosened his tie, exhaling a breath he didn't know he was holding. He stared down at the woman. She was a mess-wet hair, ruined coat, bare feet dirty from the street-but beneath the disarray, she was stunning. And broken.

Aria stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. She blinked, trying to bring his face into focus.

"What's your name?" Burke asked. His voice was soft, but it held the weight of a command.

Aria ignored the question. She was staring at his lips.

She sat up unsteadily, clutching his lapels to steady herself. She pulled him closer, her grip surprisingly strong.

"You're too handsome to be free," she whispered, analyzing him with the terrifying honesty of the intoxicated.

Burke stiffened. He was used to women wanting him for his money, for his status.

"Are you..." Aria paused, searching for the word. "Are you for hire?"

Burke's eyes narrowed. Then, a glint of dark amusement flickered in them. She thought he was an escort. A high-end gigolo.

He didn't correct her. He leaned in, his face inches from hers. "Depends on the offer."

Aria let out a wet, hiccuping laugh. She pulled at her left hand, trying to remove a ring that wasn't there.

"Marry me," she blurts out. The words tumbled over each other, desperate and reckless.

Burke froze. He stared at her. "Excuse me?"

"I need a husband," she rambled, tears suddenly welling in her eyes, spilling over her lashes. "To spite him. To show Ignacio I don't care. And... and I can't be homeless. I need... someone."

She sobbed softly, her forehead resting against his chest. "Just for tonight. Please."

Burke felt a twinge in his chest. It was foreign. Empathy? Or was it possession? He looked at this woman, this beautiful, shattered creature who was offering herself to a stranger because she had nowhere else to go.

He gripped her chin, his fingers warm and rough, tilting her face up to his.

"Do you know what you're asking?" he demanded. He needed to know she was in there somewhere.

Aria nodded vigorously. She closed the distance between them.

She kissed him. It was clumsy, tasting of cheap whiskey and salt tears, but it was desperate.

Burke hesitated for a split second. Then, something in him snapped. He crushed his mouth to hers. The kiss deepened instantly, turning hungry, possessive. He tasted her pain and her fire.

Aria pulled back for air, resting her forehead against his. Her breathing was ragged.

"Say yes," she pleaded. Her voice was barely a whisper, broken and raw.

Burke looked at her. He made a snap decision, driven by impulse and a cold calculation he couldn't quite explain.

"Deal," he growled.

He scooped her up into his arms again, turning toward the back exit. He signaled his driver, Donato, who was waiting in the alley like a silent sentinel.

Burke deposited Aria into the backseat of his Maybach. The leather was cool and smelled of new money.

Donato looked in the rearview mirror, his eyes widening slightly. It was the most emotion Burke had seen from his assistant in years.

"Where to, sir?"

"There's a twenty-four-hour chapel in New Jersey," Burke said, his voice flat. "Drive."

Donato didn't argue. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

In the backseat, Aria leaned her head on Burke's shoulder. She was muttering to herself. "Revenge. Sweet revenge."

Burke pulled out his phone. He texted his legal team. Draft a digital NDA and a prenup. Standard protection. Send it now.

Aria began to play with the buttons on his shirt. Her fingers were cold. She fumbled with the top button, her coordination shot.

Burke captured her hands in his. "Behave," he murmured against her hair. "Future Mrs..." He let his voice trail off, not finishing the name. She just giggled.

The car arrived at a tacky, neon-lit chapel an hour later. A plastic cupid fountain spat recirculated water near the entrance.

Burke shook Aria gently. "Wake up. Time to pay up."

Aria stumbled out of the car. She looked at the plastic statues and laughed. "It's perfect. Ideally hideous."

They entered. The officiant, a man with a stained tie, looked up from a magazine. He saw Burke's suit and straightened up immediately.

"We need a ceremony," Burke said. "Now."

He produced his ID. He reached into his pocket-Donato had handed him Aria's purse, recovered from the bar. He pulled out her ID. Aria Chaney.

He knew the name. Everyone in finance knew the name. Berg's stepdaughter.

The officiant rushed through the ceremony, intimidated by the sheer force of Burke's presence.

"Do you take this man?"

"I do," Aria said. She felt like she was floating. It was a dream. A weird, feverish dream.

"I do," Burke replied. His voice was heavy, anchoring her to the ground. His eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that burned.

He placed a simple silver band on her finger-he had taken it from his own pinky. It was loose, but it stayed.

They signed the papers. Burke slid the document in front of her, the text a meaningless blur in her drunken haze. "Sign here," he commanded, his finger tapping a blank line. Aria scrawled her name, the letters barely legible, not even glancing at the name printed beside hers: Burke Justice. Her mind was a fog of whiskey and rebellion; the legal print was just static.

Back in the car, the adrenaline crashed. Aria fell into a deep sleep before they even hit the Lincoln Tunnel.

Burke watched her sleeping face. He traced the line of her jaw with his thumb.

"Home," he ordered. "The Penthouse. 432 Park."

Donato cleared his throat. "Sir. Is this wise? The Berg connection..."

Burke silenced him with a look in the rearview mirror. "She's mine now."

The car glided through the city, arriving at the ultra-luxury tower that pierced the clouds. Burke carried her through the private lobby, nodding to the security guard who knew better than to ask questions.

The elevator ascended ninety floors in silence.

He laid her on his king-sized bed. The city lights sprawled below them, a grid of diamonds.

Burke removed her shoes. He covered her with a duvet.

He stood by the window, looking at the reflection of his sleeping wife in the glass. He was plotting.