Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, aggressive and blinding.

Aria groaned. A pounding headache split her skull in two. Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

She stretched, her skin brushing against sheets that were impossibly soft. High-thread-count. Expensive.

Confusion set in. This wasn't Ignacio's apartment. The ceiling was too high. The smell was different-clean, sterile, masculine.

She sat up. The room spun. The decor was minimalist. Grey tones. Sharp angles.

Memories flashed in her mind like a broken film reel. The rain. The speakeasy. The man. The... chapel?

She looked down at her left hand.

A silver ring glinted back at her. It was heavy. Real.

"Oh my god," she gasped. She buried her face in her hands. "What did I do?"

The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of cedar and soap.

Burke walked out. He was wearing only a low-slung white towel.

Aria's breath hitches. The man was sculpted. Water droplets ran down his chest, tracing the definition of his abs. He looked like a statue brought to life, if statues could look dangerous.

Burke smirked, towel-drying his hair. "Morning, wife."

Aria scrambled backward, pulling the duvet up to her chin. Her heart hammered against her ribs.

"Who are you?" she squeaks. Panic rose in her throat.

"Your husband," Burke said calmly. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. "You proposed, remember?"

Aria's mind raced. He was too good-looking. This apartment... it was a penthouse.

A terrible thought struck her. He wasn't a prince. He wasn't a businessman. He was a professional. A high-end escort. A "kept man."

This apartment probably belonged to a client. Or he rented it to impress gullible women.

Shame washed over her, hot and prickly. She had bought a husband.

Aria jumped out of bed. She was fully clothed in her wrinkled silk pajamas.

"I... I need to go," she stammered. She looked around for her shoes.

Burke moved. He blocked her path to the door. His expression shifted from casual to amused.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked. "We haven't discussed payment."

Aria froze. Payment. She knew it. It was transactional.

She checked her pockets. Empty.

"I don't have money right now," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Burke stepped closer. He loomed over her, his shadow swallowing her whole.

"I don't work for free, sweetheart."

Aria felt threatened, but mostly humiliated.

She assumed a defensive posture, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'll pay you. Whatever you want. Just let me leave."

Burke studied her fear. He realized what she was thinking. She thought he was shaking her down.

He decided to lean into it. It was the perfect leverage.

Aria pushed past Burke, rushing into the massive living room.

She stopped dead. The view. Central Park was laid out below like a green carpet. This was Billionaire's Row.

Burke followed her. He had slipped on a silk robe, tying the sash loosely. He looked like a king in his castle.

"My fee structure is complex," he said, sitting on a black leather sofa.

Aria turned to him, desperate. "I'll wire you money. Just tell me your name."

She realized she didn't know it. Or she had forgotten it in the blackout.

"You can call me Burke," he said. "And you are?"

Aria hesitated. She couldn't let him know she was a Berg. The scandal. The bankruptcy. The shame.

"Nobody," she lied. "My name is Nobody."

Burke raised an eyebrow. He knew exactly who she was. Donato had run the check. But he played along.

"Well, Ms. Nobody. My overnight fee is fifty thousand dollars."

Aria choked. "Fifty thousand?! For sleeping?!"

"I'm the best in the city," Burke shrugged. "And we are married. That costs extra."

He pulled a notepad and a fountain pen from the coffee table.

"Consulting Fee: $50,000. Marriage License Expediting: $2,000."

He ripped the page off and held it out to her.

Aria stared at the paper. It was an exorbitant debt. She didn't have fifty dollars, let alone fifty thousand.

"I can't pay this," she whispered, terrified.

"Then you'll owe me," Burke said smoothly. "You can work it off."

Aria's face paled. She misinterpreted "work it off" immediately.

Burke saw the fear and corrected her, subtly. "I accept installments. But I need collateral."

He glanced at her ring finger. "Keep the ring. It marks my investment."

Aria tried to pull the ring off. It was stuck. She clawed at the silver band on her finger, but it wouldn't budge. Her skin was swollen from the alcohol and the salt of her tears, trapping the ring like a shackle.

Panic rose. She needed to get out of this pimp's lair.

"I'll pay you," she lied. "Just let me go get my things."

Burke stood and opened the front door.

"Go ahead. But I know where to find you, Ms. Nobody."

Aria sprinted to the elevator. She pressed the button frantically.

The doors closed, cutting off Burke's enigmatic smile.

Aria collapsed against the elevator wall, sliding down to the floor. She was terrified of her new creditor.

Aria exited the luxury tower, blending into the morning rush hour. She felt like a ghost haunting the living.

She realized she had no cash for a cab. She dug through her coat pocket and found a crumpled twenty-dollar bill-a miracle, or forgotten change.

She hailed a yellow cab. "Upper East Side," she told the driver, giving Ignacio's address.

The ride was slow. Traffic mocked her urgency.

She planned to beg Ignacio. Just for her clothes. Her wallet. Her jewelry.

The cab pulled up to her old building.

Aria's heart sank.

There was a pile of cardboard boxes on the wet sidewalk. She recognized her designer luggage, thrown haphazardly on top.

Aria rushed out of the cab, forgetting to wait for her change.

The doorman, a man she had tipped generously for two years, avoided her gaze.

She dropped to her knees on the pavement. She ripped open the boxes.

Her clothes were wrinkled. Some were stained with coffee-Ignacio's spite.

She searched frantically for her jewelry box.

It was gone. Or empty. Ignacio had kept the valuables.

Aria screamed in frustration. A pedestrian jumped, startled.

She tried to run into the building lobby.

The doorman stepped in front of her. "Mr. Cohen said no visitors."

"I lived here!" she screamed. "My name is on the mail!"

"Not anymore, Ms. Chaney. Please. Don't make me call the cops."

Aria backed away, defeated.

Rain started to drizzle again, soaking her pajamas and the ruined coat.

She sat on her suitcase. She looked up at the grey sky.

She was truly homeless. No fiancé. No home. And a fifty-thousand-dollar debt to a man named Burke.

A black car drove by slowly. The tinted windows hid the occupant, but Aria was too miserable to notice.

She needed to call someone. She remembered her phone. Maybe it was in the box.

She dug through the mess of clothes. Her fingers brushed against cold metal.

Her phone. The screen was cracked, spiderwebbed, but it lit up.

A barrage of notifications flooded the screen.