The restaurant Daniel chose was in SoHo, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs and prices that made Joanna wince. She'd changed three times before leaving the apartment-nothing too nice, nothing that suggested this was a date, but nothing that looked like she'd thrown it on in despair either.

She settled on black pants and a blue sweater. Safe. Professional. Armor.

Daniel was already there when she arrived, seated at a corner table with a view of the door. He stood when he saw her, smiling that smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Joanna. You look lovely."

"Thank you." She slid into the chair across from him, putting the table between them. "I appreciate you meeting me on short notice."

"For you? Always." He sat back down, his gaze lingering on her face, her neck, the place where she'd tried to cover the last of the bruises with concealer. "You look tired. Is everything okay at the gallery?"

"Fine. Everything's fine." She opened her menu, hiding behind it. "Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. The gallery. And our working relationship."

The silence stretched. Joanna felt his attention sharpen, focus on her like a predator spotting movement.

"Our working relationship," he repeated. "That sounds serious."

"It is," she lowered the menu, forced herself to meet his eyes. "Daniel, you're my manager, and I respect you. But lately, some of your comments and... invitations have felt like they're crossing a line. I need that to stop. I want our interactions to be strictly professional from now on."

Daniel's smile flickered. "Crossing a line. You mean you don't appreciate my attention."

"No. I don't." Joanna grabbed her water glass, took a sip to wet her dry throat. "I value my job. I don't want anything to complicate it, and I need to be very clear about my boundaries."

"Boundaries." He leaned forward, his hand finding hers on the table. His palm was damp. Clammy. "Joanna, I thought we had a connection. The way you look at me. The way you find reasons to be in my office. I thought-"

"You thought wrong." She pulled her hand back, too fast, knocking her water glass. It didn't spill, but the near-miss made her cheeks burn. "I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. That was never my intent. But I need this to be clear. There is no 'us' outside of work."

Daniel's expression changed. The smile vanished, replaced by something harder, more calculating. "I see."

"I hope you do." Joanna pressed on, feeling a surge of strength. "That's why I wanted to talk to you in person, away from the gallery. So there would be no confusion."

"No confusion." He sat back. His eyes traveled over her face, searching for a weakness. "And if I say I'm disappointed?"

"You're allowed to be disappointed, Daniel. But you're not allowed to harass me. I just need you to respect my decision."

"Of course." He picked up his wine glass, swirled the red liquid. "Forgive me. I was under a different impression. But if this is how you feel-" He said the words like they left a bad taste. "-then I will, of course, respect your wishes."

The waiter arrived. They ordered-Joanna barely tasted her food, picked at a salad while Daniel ate steak and watched her with eyes that missed nothing. The conversation turned to work, to upcoming exhibitions, to the artists they represented. Safe topics. Professional topics.

But every time she looked up, Daniel was watching her. Studying her.

She escaped as soon as she could, pleading a headache, an early morning. Daniel walked her to the subway, his hand hovering near the small of her back but not touching, a gesture that felt more menacing for its restraint.

"Take care, Joanna," he said as she descended the stairs. "I'll see you at work tomorrow. Strictly professional, of course."

She didn't look back.

The apartment was empty when she got home. Leah was out-date night with her boyfriend, a text on the fridge informed her. Joanna was grateful for the solitude. She couldn't face questions, couldn't pretend to be normal for one more minute.

She showered. Brushed her teeth. Crawled into bed with her phone clutched in her hand like a talisman.

It rang at midnight.

She knew who it was before she looked. The number was unfamiliar, but the timing was his. The arrogance of calling when he knew she'd be alone, vulnerable, thinking about him.

"Hello?"

"Did you have a nice dinner?"

Joanna's blood went cold. She sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest. "How did you-"

"I told you, Joanna. I have resources." His voice was calm. Almost amused. "So. You had dinner with your boss. The man you ran to after you left my car. The one who can't keep his hands to himself."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't lie to me." The amusement vanished, replaced by steel. "I saw you leave. I saw you meet him. I know what he is. What I don't know is why you would seek him out. Why you would put yourself in that position."

Joanna's hand was shaking. "It's none of your business. I was handling it."

"Joanna." Her name, spoken like a sigh. Like disappointment. "I had you followed. I know he touched you. I know you pulled away. I know you think you 'handled it,' but men like him don't respect boundaries. They see them as a challenge." His voice dropped. "You should have called me."

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. "You're stalking me."

"I'm protecting what's mine. There's a difference." She heard movement on his end, the rustle of fabric, the creak of leather. "Tomorrow. One o'clock. The Met. The European paintings wing. Be there."

"I won't-"

"You'll be there." His voice was soft. Certain. "Or I'll come to the gallery. I'll introduce myself to Daniel. I'll explain, in detail, my concerns about his management style. Perhaps I'll even mention our night together. The sounds you made. The marks I left." He paused. "Your choice, Joanna. Public or private. But we will talk."

The line went dead.

Joanna stared at her phone until the screen went dark. Her heart was hammering, her hands shaking, her mind racing through options that all ended in the same place.

She couldn't run. Couldn't hide. Couldn't build a wall he wouldn't tear down.

She was trapped.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was crowded for a Thursday afternoon. Joanna moved through the Great Hall with her coat clutched tight, her eyes scanning the crowd for a face she wasn't sure she could forget even if she tried.

She found him in the European paintings wing, standing in front of a Caravaggio she didn't recognize. He didn't look at her when she approached, but she saw the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his head tilted to track her reflection in the glass.

"You're late."

"I'm here." She stopped three feet away, close enough to smell him, far enough to pretend she could still escape. "What do you want?"

He turned. Today he was in a charcoal suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone. He looked like what he was-wealth, power, the kind of man who moved through the world expecting it to bend to his will.

"I want to understand." He gestured to the painting behind him. "Do you know this one?"

Joanna glanced at it. A woman, young, beautiful, holding a sword and a severed head. Judith Slaying Holofernes. "I know the story. She killed him to save her people."

"She killed him because he wanted to possess her." Cain's eyes were on her face, not the painting. "Because he thought her body was his right. Because he couldn't imagine that she might have her own desires. Her own will."

"Is that supposed to be you? The victim?"

His mouth curved. "I'm many things, Joanna. But I'm not Holofernes. I don't want to possess you against your will." He stepped closer. She held her ground. "I want you to want me. I want you to admit that what happened between us was real. That it meant something."

"It was sex." Joanna's voice was harsh, too loud for the quiet gallery. A docent glanced over, frowning. She lowered her voice. "It was one night. It doesn't have to mean anything."

"Then why did you run?"

"Because-" She stopped. Because you scared me. Because I wanted you too much. Because I knew that if I stayed, I would lose myself in you completely.

"Because you're a control freak who thinks he can order people around," she finished. "Because I don't want to be someone's possession. Not yours. Not anyone's."

Cain was silent for a long moment. Then he reached into his pocket, withdrew something small and silver. A phone. He held it out to her.

"Take this."

Joanna didn't move. "I have a phone."

"Take it." He pressed it into her hand, his fingers warm against her palm. "It's programmed with one number. Mine. You can call me anytime. Day or night. If you need something. If you want something. If you just-" He stopped. Started again. "If you just want to talk."

Joanna looked at the phone. It was sleek, expensive, the kind of device that cost more than her monthly rent. "I don't want your gifts."

"It's not a gift. It's a lifeline." He stepped back, putting space between them. "I'm not going to force you, Joanna. I'm not going to show up at your apartment, your work, your dinner dates. Not unless you want me to."

"Why would I want that?"

"Because you're as alone as I am." The words were soft. Almost gentle. "Because you spent last night with a stranger rather than face another evening in that cramped apartment with your judgmental roommate. Because-" He reached out, his hand finding her chin, tilting her face up to his. "Because when I touched you, you lit up like you'd been waiting your whole life for someone to see you. Really see you."

Joanna jerked away. The phone was heavy in her hand, a chain she didn't want but couldn't seem to drop.

"I have to go."

"Keep the phone." He didn't follow her. "And Joanna?"

She stopped. Didn't turn around.

"The next time a man like Daniel Morrison puts you in a position where you feel you have to meet him for dinner just to draw a line, you call me instead. I'll draw the line for you."

She walked away. Through the galleries, down the stairs, out into the cold November air. The phone burned in her pocket like a brand.

She didn't throw it away. She told herself it was because she couldn't afford to replace it if she needed to call for help. Because it was practical. Because she was being smart.

She didn't admit, not even to herself, that she'd already memorized the number programmed into it. That she'd checked, twice, to make sure it was really there.

That some part of her, the part she'd been trying to kill since she was sixteen, wanted him to be right.