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.

The dining room of the McCarthy estate was suffocatingly opulent. Crystal chandeliers cast a harsh, glittering light over the long mahogany table.

Elodie sat near the end of the table. Her stomach was in knots. At the head of the table sat her father, Leland McCarthy. His face was a mask of rigid disapproval. Her stepmother sat quietly beside him, picking at her salad.

The silence was heavy and toxic.

"I hear you're still parading around the city with that penniless coder," Leland said. His voice cut through the quiet like a serrated knife. He didn't even look up from his steak. "You are making a mockery of this family, Elodie."

Elodie's hands trembled in her lap. She was already bleeding from Fletcher's rejection that morning. She had no patience left for her father's tyranny.

"My personal life is none of your business," Elodie snapped. Her voice echoed off the high ceiling. "And he's not a coder. He's a founder."

Leland slammed his silver fork onto his porcelain plate. The loud clatter made the stepmother flinch.

"He is a parasite!" Leland roared.

The stepmother quickly raised her hand, signaling the butler standing in the shadows. "Please, let's just have the wine poured."

The heavy oak doors to the kitchen swung open. A line of catering staff, all dressed in crisp black-and-white uniforms, marched into the room. They carried silver trays and bottles of wine.

A server approached Elodie's right side. The server held a bottle of decanted Lafite.

The server's hands were shaking. As she tilted the bottle, the heavy glass neck collided hard with the rim of Elodie's crystal wine glass. A sharp clink rang out.

Elodie frowned. She turned her head to scold the clumsy server.

The words died in her throat. All the air vanished from her lungs.

It was Dani.

Dani from the startup. Dani, who was wearing a cheap catering uniform, her hair pulled back into a messy bun.

Dani gasped. Her eyes went wide with exaggerated terror. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, ma'am!" she squeaked. Her eyes immediately welled up with tears.

Elodie pushed her chair back. The wooden legs scraped loudly against the marble floor. She stood up. Her heart hammered wildly against her ribs. Her hand flew to her wrist, her thumb grinding against the sharp edges of her diamond bracelet as a sickening realization washed over her.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Elodie demanded. She pointed a shaking finger at Dani's face. "Why are you in my house?"

Dani kept her head bowed. Her shoulders trembled. "I... I work for the catering agency on weekends. I swear I didn't know this was your house, Elodie."

Elodie stared at her. Through the tears, Elodie saw it. A microscopic twitch at the corner of Dani's mouth. A smirk.

Suddenly, Elodie's gaze dropped.

The top button of Dani's uniform was undone. Resting against her collarbone was a necklace. A heavy, antique silver chain holding a massive, teardrop blue sapphire.

Elodie's blood ran freezing cold.

It was her mother's necklace. The one that had disappeared from the vault ten years ago. And right there, on the silver clasp resting against Dani's skin, was the unmistakable engraving: the McCarthy family iris crest.

A blinding rage exploded behind Elodie's eyes.

She lunged forward. Her hand shot out and clamped down hard on Dani's wrist.

"Where did you get this?" Elodie screamed. Her voice tore through her throat. "Take it off! Take it off right now!"

Dani shrieked. She deliberately twisted her arm. The heavy bottle of Lafite slipped from her grasp.

The bottle shattered against the edge of the table. Dark red wine exploded outward. It splashed violently across the front of Elodie's pale silk dress, looking exactly like fresh blood.

Chaos erupted.

Leland shot up from his chair. He didn't look at his daughter's ruined dress. He didn't ask if she was cut by the glass.

"Let her go!" Leland bellowed. His face was purple with rage. He marched around the table.

Elodie stared at her father in disbelief. She kept her grip on Dani, using her other hand to yank the sapphire necklace out from under the uniform collar. She held it up in the harsh chandelier light.

"She stole Mom's necklace!" Elodie screamed. "Look at the crest!"

Leland reached them. He didn't look at the necklace. He grabbed Elodie's forearm and squeezed the bone until she cried out and dropped Dani's wrist.

Leland snatched the necklace from Elodie's fingers. He shoved it into his pocket. His eyes darted around the room, wild with panic.

"It's a cheap replica," Leland hissed. "I gave it to the staff as a bonus. Stop acting like a lunatic."

Elodie froze. She looked at her father's sweating forehead. She looked at his shifting eyes. Then, she looked at Dani.

Dani was rubbing her wrist. She wasn't crying anymore. She was looking right at Elodie, and she was smiling. A cold, victorious, venomous smile.

The puzzle pieces slammed together in Elodie's brain. The physical shock made her knees weak.

"She's not catering," Elodie whispered. The horror in her voice silenced the room. She looked at her father. "She's yours. Isn't she? She's your bastard daughter."

The stepmother gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. The butler quickly waved the remaining staff out of the room.

Leland's face twisted into something monstrous. The exposure of his deepest, ugliest secret shattered his control.

He raised his hand and swung.

The slap sounded like a whip cracking.

The force of the blow threw Elodie's head to the side. She stumbled backward, her hip crashing into the edge of the table. A sharp, metallic taste flooded her mouth. Her cheek burned with a blinding, agonizing heat.

"Get out," Leland roared. Spit flew from his lips. He pointed a trembling finger at the grand double doors. "Get out of my house! You, ungrateful daughter."

Elodie slowly touched her burning cheek. She looked at the man who had raised her. She looked at the smirking girl standing behind him.

She didn't shed a single tear. She straightened her spine. She lifted her chin, her ruined, wine-soaked dress clinging to her legs.

She turned around and walked out the door.

The rain was relentless. It fell in icy, diagonal sheets across the dark streets of Long Island.

Elodie walked down the empty sidewalk. Her high heels clicked unevenly against the wet pavement. The wind whipped her soaked hair across her face. The expensive silk dress clung to her skin, the dark red wine stain washed into a muddy, bruised purple by the rain. She was freezing. Her teeth chattered violently.

She stopped under a flickering streetlamp. Her fingers were numb as she pulled her phone from her Birkin bag. The screen was cracked, but it still worked.

She opened the Uber app. She requested a ride back to her penthouse in Manhattan.

A red warning box popped up on the screen. Payment Method Declined.

Elodie frowned. She deleted the black card and manually typed in the numbers of her American Express Platinum card.

She hit submit.

Transaction Denied. Please contact your banking institution.

A hollow laugh escaped her lips. Leland was fast. He hadn't just kicked her out; he had severed her financial arteries within minutes. He wanted her stranded in the rain. He wanted her to crawl back and beg.

A passing taxi hit a pothole. A wave of dirty street water splashed over Elodie's shins, ruining her suede heels.

She didn't flinch. She opened her contacts and dialed a number.

Thirty minutes later, the roar of an engine cut through the storm. A bright pink Porsche 911 screeched to a halt beside the curb.

The passenger door popped open.

Elodie climbed inside. The leather interior was warm and smelled of expensive vanilla perfume.

Tess Amory, Elodie's best friend since boarding school, sat behind the wheel. Tess pulled down her oversized Chanel sunglasses, despite it being pitch black outside. Her jaw dropped.

She stared at Elodie's soaked, stained dress. Then, her eyes locked onto the angry, red handprint swelling on Elodie's left cheek.

"Who hit you?" Tess asked. Her voice was deadly serious.

Elodie leaned her head back against the headrest. She closed her eyes. "My father."

As Tess merged the Porsche onto the highway toward Manhattan, Elodie told her everything. She spoke in a flat, detached voice. She told her about the catering uniform, the sapphire necklace, the smirk, and the slap.

Tess slammed her hand against the steering wheel. She unleashed a string of vicious curses aimed at Leland and Dani.

"You're moving into my guest room," Tess declared as the Manhattan skyline came into view. "I don't care what my parents say. You're staying with me."

Elodie opened her eyes. She shook her head. "No. Leland will threaten your father's supply chain if you harbor me. I won't do that to you."

Elodie unlatched her Birkin bag. Her hands were still shaking from the cold, but her movements were deliberate. She reached into the hidden zippered compartment at the back of the bag.

She pulled out a thick, folded document. The paper was slightly yellowed at the edges.

"What is that?" Tess asked, glancing over.

"When I turned eighteen, Grandmother Eleonora set up an independent trust for me," Elodie said softly. She traced the embossed seal on the paper. "Leland doesn't know about it. He has no legal access to it. It has cash, and the deeds to three unlisted properties."

Tess's eyes widened. A wicked grin spread across her face. "Eleonora was a genius. So, where are we going? The townhouse in Chelsea? The villa in the Hamptons?"

Elodie stared out the rain-streaked window. The neon lights of the city blurred together. Suddenly, an image flashed in her mind. Fletcher's cold, angry eyes from that morning. Dani's triumphant smirk in the dining room.

Dani wanted her life. Dani wanted her father. Dani wanted her boyfriend.

Elodie's fingers crushed the edge of the trust document. A fierce, burning heat ignited in her chest, chasing away the cold.

"Take me to SoHo," Elodie commanded. "To the industrial lofts on Mercer Street."

Tess slammed on the brakes, nearly causing a pileup. She turned to Elodie, horrified. "Are you insane? You're going to that broke loser's apartment? After he treated you like garbage this morning?"

"Dani wants to take everything from me," Elodie said. Her voice was pure steel. "She is not taking him."

Ten minutes later, the Porsche idled outside a grim, graffiti-covered brick building in SoHo. Elodie pushed the door open. She refused Tess's offer to walk her up.

She stepped into the dimly lit, foul-smelling elevator, filled with various odors, and watched the numbers on the elevator door rise little by little until she arrived.

She reached the heavy iron door with the peeling number '4B'.

She took a deep breath. Her ribs ached. She pressed the buzzer.

Heavy footsteps approached from the inside. The deadbolt clicked. The door swung open.

Fletcher stood in the doorway. He was wearing low-hanging gray sweatpants. His chest was bare, his skin damp with fresh water droplets from a shower. His dark hair was wet and messy.

He looked down. His eyes locked onto Elodie.

He saw the soaked, ruined dress. He saw her shivering frame. And then, his eyes snapped to the violent, purple-red bruise blooming across her cheek.

Fletcher's pupils dilated. A terrifying, violent darkness exploded in his eyes. His hands twitched at his sides, his knuckles instantly turning white. For a fraction of a second, he looked ready to murder someone.

But then, his jaw locked. He forcefully shoved the emotion down, burying it behind a wall of ice.

"What the hell are you doing here?" his voice was a low, gravelly rasp.

Elodie didn't answer. She ducked under his arm and pushed her way into the apartment. She walked straight to the worn leather sofa and dropped her Birkin bag onto the cushions.

She turned around. She lifted her chin, staring right into his cold eyes.

"I'm broke," Elodie said. Her voice didn't tremble. "My father cut me off. You're taking me in."