Fletcher broke the kiss as violently as he had started it.

He tore his mouth away. His chest heaved against hers. His breathing was heavy and ragged. His dark eyes were locked onto her swollen lips, burning with a raw, terrifying intensity.

Elodie's mind went entirely blank. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She gripped the lapels of his shirt, trying to ground herself. She desperately tried to pull oxygen back into her burning lungs.

A loud, piercing buzz shattered the silence.

The elevator doors had been open too long. The mechanical alarm echoed through the empty hallway.

Fletcher flinched. He took a sudden half-step back. His hands dropped from her hair. He reached up and adjusted his shirt collar. In the span of a single second, the fire in his eyes vanished. The ice returned. His face became a perfect, unreadable mask.

The whiplash made Elodie dizzy. A hot flush of humiliation crept up her neck. It felt as if the desperate kiss had only happened in her imagination.

She took a deep breath. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached into her Birkin bag. She pulled out a thick, cream-colored envelope. The gold foil edges caught the dim hallway light.

"My Grandma Eleanora is hosting her charity gala on the Upper East Side this weekend," Elodie said. Her voice was barely above a whisper. She held the invitation out to him. "I want you to come with me. As my date."

Fletcher stared at the heavy paper. His eyes traced the intricate McCarthy family crest embossed on the front. A microscopic sneer pulled at the corner of his mouth.

He didn't reach for it.

"Are you sure you want a broke startup guy dragging down your family's reputation?" he asked. His voice was devoid of emotion.

Elodie's stomach dropped. She reached out and grabbed his wrist. His skin was warm, but the muscles beneath were rigid.

"She wants to meet you," Elodie pleaded. "I don't care what anyone else thinks. I just want you there."

Fletcher looked down at her pale fingers wrapped around his arm. The silence stretched. One second. Two. Three. Four. Five.

He slowly pulled his arm out of her grasp. He took the envelope from her hand.

"I'll be there on time," he said. His tone was as flat as a dial tone.

Elodie let out a shaky breath. A wave of profound relief washed over her. She offered him a fragile, hopeful smile and stepped backward into the elevator.

The doors slid shut.

Fletcher turned on his heel. He walked back into the office. He marched straight to his desk, opened the bottom drawer, and tossed the gold-foiled invitation inside. He slammed it shut.

Downstairs, the elevator doors opened to the main lobby.

Elodie stepped out and stopped dead in her tracks. The sky had cracked open. A torrential downpour was washing over Manhattan. Thick sheets of rain pounded against the pavement.

She didn't have an umbrella. She walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling glass wall of the lobby. She crossed her arms, shivering slightly as she waited for her driver to pull the Maybach around.

Bored, she turned her head to look at the outdoor patio area attached to the side of the building.

Through the rain-streaked glass, she saw him.

Fletcher was standing outside. He was holding a large black umbrella.

And he wasn't alone.

Dani stood right beside him under the dark canopy. She was holding two steaming paper cups of coffee. She tilted her head back, laughing at something. Her face was bright and glowing.

Fletcher's expression was still stoic, but he didn't move away. He didn't put an inch of distance between them.

Elodie watched as Dani casually reached out. The younger woman brushed a stray raindrop off the shoulder of Fletcher's shirt. Her fingers lingered on his fabric.

Fletcher didn't flinch. He didn't pull away like he had done with Elodie upstairs. He just looked down at Dani and said something. They looked comfortable. Intimate.

Elodie's fingers clamped down on the handles of her Birkin. Her knuckles turned bone-white. Her nails dug into the leather.

The memory of him dodging her touch in the conference room flashed in her mind. The contrast was a physical knife twisting in her gut.

A loud horn blared.

The black Maybach pulled up to the curb.

Elodie tore her eyes away from the umbrella. She pushed through the revolving doors and sprinted through the rain. She threw herself into the backseat of the car.

The heat was blasting inside the luxurious cabin, but Elodie felt freezing cold. Her teeth chattered. She pulled her phone from her purse and opened her text thread with Fletcher.

Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

What are you doing?

She stared at the words. Her chest ached. After a long, agonizing minute, she hit the backspace button. She deleted the message.

The Maybach merged into the heavy Brooklyn traffic. Elodie stared out the wet window. A dark, ugly seed of doubt had just taken root deep in her chest.

It was nine o'clock at night. The startup office was dead quiet. The open-plan desks were empty, bathed in the orange glow of the streetlights outside. Only the glass box of Fletcher's office was fully illuminated.

Dani didn't knock. She pushed the heavy glass door open and walked right in. She carried a steaming ceramic mug.

Fletcher was pinching the bridge of his nose. He stared at a complex spreadsheet on his monitor. He dropped his hand and glared at her. The intrusion made his jaw tick.

Dani ignored his cold stare. She walked around his desk and set the mug down right next to his keyboard. She leaned forward. The top two buttons of her Zara blouse were undone, exposing her collarbone.

"Chamomile tea," Dani said softly. Her voice dripped with exaggerated admiration. "I was looking at the backend code you pushed today. It's literally like art, Fletcher."

Fletcher stared at her. His eyes were dead. He didn't say a word. He simply grabbed the armrests of his chair and rolled himself backward, putting two feet of distance between them.

Dani bit her lower lip. A flash of irritation crossed her eyes. She placed both hands flat on his desk and leaned in further, refusing to give up the space.

Suddenly, the phone on Fletcher's desk vibrated violently.

The screen lit up. A FaceTime request. The caller ID read: Elodie.

Dani's eyes darted to the screen. Her jaw tightened with instant jealousy. She didn't step back. She stayed exactly where she was, hovering over his workspace.

Fletcher picked up the phone. He didn't hesitate. He swiped the green button.

Elodie's face filled the screen. She was lying in bed, wearing a dark green silk pajama top. Her blonde hair was loose against the pillows. She opened her mouth to speak, a soft smile forming on her lips.

Then, her eyes flicked to the background of the video.

The smile vanished. Her features hardened into stone.

She saw Dani. She saw the unbuttoned blouse. She saw how close the girl was standing to Fletcher's chair.

Dani leaned into the frame. She waved her fingers at the camera.

"Hi, Elodie!" Dani chirped. Her voice was sickeningly sweet.

Elodie didn't even blink at Dani. Her piercing blue eyes locked directly onto Fletcher's through the screen.

"Are you busy?" Elodie asked. Her voice was pure ice.

Fletcher looked at the screen. He saw the raw, burning jealousy in Elodie's eyes. A dark, unreadable expression flickered across his face for a fraction of a second. Before anyone could decipher the intense shift in his eyes, he masked it completely, his features settling into a wall of pure indifference.

"Just running some data," Fletcher said flatly. He didn't look at Dani. "Dani, get out. I need to take this."

Dani's fake smile shattered. Her face flushed a deep, angry red. She spun around and marched out of the office, letting the glass door slam shut behind her.

Elodie sat up in bed. The silk sheets rustled.

"Why is your subordinate in your office dressed like that at nine in the night?" Elodie demanded. Her voice shook slightly.

"It's a startup. We work late," Fletcher replied. His tone was dismissive. Bored.

Elodie's shoulders slumped. A wave of exhaustion washed over her. She couldn't fight his brick wall of apathy through a screen.

"Right. Goodnight, Fletcher," she whispered, and ended the call.

Half an hour later, Fletcher shut down his computer. He turned off the office lights and walked down the rusty stairs. He stepped out into the cool Brooklyn night and walked toward the dark, narrow alley where he parked.

He reached the sleek, Aston Martin sports car. He pulled the handle.

Before he could open the door, a shadow darted from the front of the car.

The passenger door was yanked open. Elodie slid into the leather seat. She was wearing a long trench coat over her silk pajamas. She brought the freezing night air in with her.

Fletcher froze. He stared at her through the windshield. He quickly got into the driver's seat and slammed the door.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded. His brow furrowed in genuine confusion.

Elodie didn't answer. She unbuckled her seatbelt. In one fluid motion, she climbed over the center console. She straddled his lap, her knees pressing into the leather seat on either side of his hips.

Standing in the shadows of the alley, hidden behind a dumpster, Dani watched. Her eyes widened in shock.

Inside the car, Elodie grabbed Fletcher's face with both hands. She leaned down and kissed him. It wasn't romantic. It was territorial. She bit his lower lip hard enough to make him gasp.

Fletcher's hands instinctively came up to push her away. But the moment his palms touched her waist, his fingers dug into the fabric of her coat. He groaned, a low, guttural sound, and pulled her flush against his chest.

The kiss deepened into something frantic and consuming. The heat radiating from their bodies quickly fogged up the windows of the sports car, turning the glass into a hazy white blur.

Outside in the cold alley, Dani stared at the shaking car. Her chest heaved. She dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands until the skin broke, drawing tiny drops of blood.

The morning sun sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Elodie's Manhattan penthouse.

Elodie lay in the center of the massive bed. The sheets were tangled around her legs. She rested her cheek against Fletcher's bare, muscular chest. She listened to the steady, rhythmic thumping of his heart. For the first time in weeks, she felt a profound sense of peace.

Then, her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She didn't look at it, but she knew what it was. It was the family group chat. Her father, Leland, sending more passive-aggressive articles about corporate mergers and the sons of his wealthy friends. A wave of nausea rolled through her stomach.

Elodie lifted her head. She looked down at Fletcher. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even. His hand was lazily tangled in her blonde hair.

"Let's get married," Elodie blurted out.

Fletcher's hand stopped moving. His entire body went rigid. The muscles in his chest turned to stone beneath her cheek.

He opened his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling for a second before shifting his gaze to her. His dark eyes were searching, scanning her face for the punchline. He was trying to figure out if this was another one of her twisted rich-girl games.

Elodie saw his hesitation. She thought she understood it. She thought he was terrified of the financial gap between them.

She scrambled off his chest. She reached over to the nightstand and pulled open the top drawer. She took out a thick stack of legal documents bound in a blue folder.

She practically shoved the folder onto his chest.

"I had my lawyers draft this," Elodie said, her words rushing out in a breathless panic. "It's a prenup. A complete separation of assets. If you sign this, my father can't use my trust fund to threaten us. He can't say you're after my money. We'll be free."

Fletcher slowly sat up. The sheets fell away from his waist. He looked down at the folder.

The bold black letters on the cover read: Pre-Nuptial Agreement & Asset Isolation Protocol.

The words burned his retinas. The memory of her voice-calling him a "fun distraction"-echoed violently in his skull. He saw the document for exactly what he believed it was: a leash. A reminder that she was the master, and he was the pet she was protecting her fortune from.

His blood turned to ice.

Fletcher grabbed the folder and threw it. It hit the wall and clattered onto the expensive Persian rug. The papers spilled out like garbage.

"Fletcher?" Elodie gasped, shrinking back against the headboard. Her thumb instinctively sought her wrist, grinding nervously against the cold diamonds of her tennis bracelet.

He threw the blanket off and stood up. He grabbed his dress shirt from the floor and shoved his arms into the sleeves. His movements were jerky, mechanical, and terrifyingly cold.

"Why are you mad?" Elodie's voice cracked. "I'm trying to protect us!"

Fletcher turned around. He began buttoning his shirt. His lips curled into a vicious, mocking sneer.

"Protect us?" he spat. "You mean protect yourself. From the poor, desperate startup guy."

"That's not what I meant!" Elodie cried out. Her chest heaved.

"Yes, it is," Fletcher said. His voice was a lethal whisper. "You think you can just throw a legal document at me and buy a husband? I'm not one of your country club lapdogs, Elodie. My company might be in a shithole in Brooklyn, but I don't need your charity. And I sure as hell don't want your money."

Tears spilled over Elodie's eyelashes. They tracked hot and fast down her cheeks. "I never thought of you as charity."

Fletcher grabbed his suit jacket. He didn't look at her tears. If he did, he knew he would break.

"I have a company to run," he said coldly.

He walked out of the bedroom. He didn't look back. The heavy oak door of the corporate-owned McCarthy penthouse slammed shut. Her father held the deed to this place, and right now, the vast, echoing space felt more like a gilded cage than a home.

Elodie collapsed onto the pillows. She stared at the scattered legal papers on the rug. A sob ripped from her throat, tearing her chest apart.

By six o'clock that evening, The silver Aston Martin was parked outside her apartment building.

Fletcher had sent a single, sterile text: Come down. I'm taking you to your family dinner.

Elodie walked out of the lobby. She wore oversized black sunglasses to hide her swollen, red eyes. She opened the passenger door and slid into the leather seat.

The air inside the car was suffocating. Fletcher stared straight ahead through the windshield. His hands gripped the steering wheel. He didn't say hello. He didn't ask if she was okay.

The drive to Long Island took an hour. They didn't speak a single word.

The car finally pulled up to the massive wrought-iron gates of the McCarthy estate.

Fletcher put the car in park. He didn't turn off the engine. He didn't get out to open her door.

"Don't forget your bag," he said. His voice was hollow.

Elodie bit her bottom lip so hard she tasted copper. She grabbed her purse, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the humid evening air. She slammed the door shut. She walked toward the gates, her spine rigid, refusing to look back.

Inside the car, Fletcher watched her walk away. His chest tightened until he couldn't breathe. He gripped the steering wheel. He squeezed the leather until his knuckles turned white and his joints ached. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal, the engine roaring as he sped away into the dark.