Fiona moved with the silence of a ghost.

The shame and the searing memory of betrayal were a toxic cocktail in her gut. She slid out of the bed, her muscles protesting. Her dress lay in a heap on the floor. She scooped it up, along with her heels and the small clutch she'd somehow managed to hang onto.

Her only thought was to escape. To vanish from this room, from this man, before he could say a word.

She was almost at the door, her hand reaching for the handle, when his voice cut through the silence. It was low and cold, like stones grinding together.

"Are you just going to leave like that, Ms. Donaldson?"

Fiona froze, her back to him. A shiver, completely unrelated to the room's temperature, traced its way down her spine. She took a breath, pulling a mask of icy composure over her face before turning to face him.

"Mr. Blake," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "I think it's clear we have nothing to discuss."

He rose from the sofa he'd moved to. He was taller than she'd realized, his presence dominating the cavernous suite. He walked toward her, not quickly, but with an unhurried, predatory grace that made her instinctively take a step back.

He stopped a foot in front of her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. The air crackled with a tension that was entirely different from the night before.

"You break into my room, use me, and then declare there's nothing to discuss?" His voice was laced with a dangerous sort of amusement. "I believe you owe me. You need to take responsibility."

A bitter, incredulous laugh escaped her lips. "Responsibility? It was a two-way street, Mr. Blake. And if we're assigning blame, I was the one who was drugged and running for my life."

His expression didn't change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. He was assessing her.

Fine. He wanted proof? She would give him proof.

She set her clutch on a nearby console table and pulled out a wafer-thin tablet. It was a custom piece of tech, matte black and unmarked. Ewart watched her, a flicker of curiosity in his otherwise impassive gaze. He didn't try to stop her.

Fiona's fingers flew across the screen. Lines of code, elegant and lethal, streamed across the display. The hotel's network security was impressive-multiple layers of firewalls, encrypted access points. It was a challenge, but for her, it was like picking a simple lock.

A minute later, she was in. She bypassed the local server and went straight for the central security hub of the Apex Grand Hotel.

In Ewart's pocket, his personal phone buzzed with a frantic, high-priority security alert from his head of IT. He ignored it, his eyes fixed on her.

Fiona located the footage from the 25th floor from the previous night. She found the right camera angle, the one just down the hall from her suite. The video was crystal clear. It showed Chip and Bette, their faces twisted with ugly determination, dragging a barely conscious woman-her-down the corridor.

She turned the tablet toward Ewart, her voice as cold and hard as the evidence on the screen. "Now. Do you still think I'm the one who needs to take responsibility?"

She expected this to be her checkmate. The irrefutable proof that would allow her to walk out of this room and never look back.

Ewart glanced at the video. His face remained a blank canvas. Then, the corner of his mouth tilted up in a smile that wasn't a smile at all. It was something else. Something calculating and possessive.

His gaze dropped from the screen to her hand, which was gripping the tablet. Her sleeve had ridden up slightly, exposing her wrist. For a fraction of a second, his eyes locked onto a thin, white scar that circled her wrist like a thread. His expression flickered, so subtly she almost missed it.

Then he pulled out his own phone and dialed a number.

"IT," he said, his voice calm and authoritative. "I have an unauthorized access event on the 25th-floor security server. I want all surveillance data from last night, from 2200 hours to 0600, flagged for Level-S encryption. Send the raw data directly to my personal server. And revoke all other access."

He hung up.

He looked at Fiona, his eyes glinting with that unnerving amusement again. "Nicely done, little hacker."

A cold alarm bell started screaming in Fiona's head. His personal server? How could he give a direct order to the hotel's IT department?

As if reading her mind, Ewart walked slowly to the massive window. He gestured with his chin toward the street far below, where the hotel's name was emblazoned in massive, polished brass letters above the entrance: APEX GRAND.

"I apologize," he said, turning back to her, his voice smooth as silk. "I forgot to properly introduce myself."

He paused, letting the silence stretch, enjoying the dawning horror on her face.

"This hotel, and the Apex Global corporation it belongs to... they're mine."

The blood in Fiona's veins turned to ice. It wasn't just a hotel suite. It was his hotel. His entire kingdom. She hadn't just slept with her fiancé's powerful uncle. She had hacked his company's servers while standing in his private room.

Her proof. Her leverage. It had all just been delivered, gift-wrapped, into the hands of the one man she couldn't afford to have it.

He closed the distance between them again, his shadow falling over her. He reached out, his fingers gently tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His touch was light, but it felt like a brand.

"Now," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. "Let's discuss how you're going to take responsibility."

Pride, fierce and stubborn, surged through her. She would not be a pawn in his game. She jerked her head away from his touch.

"I won't be manipulated by you," she bit out, her voice trembling with suppressed fury.

Ewart Blake actually chuckled. A low, humorless sound. He let his hand drop.

"Oh, you will," he said, his certainty absolute. "Because you have no other choice."

Fiona stood her ground, her body rigid with defiance. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she knew it was useless.

Ewart gestured toward the leather sofa. "Sit, Ms. Donaldson. We can't solve this while you're poised for flight."

He walked to a discreet wet bar, poured two glasses of water, and placed one on the heavy wood coffee table. He sat down, his movements relaxed, as if he had all the time in the world. He was in complete control, and he knew it.

After a tense moment, Fiona moved. She chose the armchair furthest from him, perching on the edge of the cushion. She didn't touch the water.

Ewart didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"Marry me."

The two words hung in the air, so absurd, so utterly insane, that Fiona stared at him, convinced she had misheard. Then a dry, sharp laugh escaped her.

"Are you out of your mind, Mr. Blake?"

He ignored her derision. From a sleek leather briefcase beside the sofa, he produced a document bound in dark blue. He slid it across the table toward her.

The cover read: Marital Agreement.

"It would be a contract," he stated, his voice a flat, business-like monotone. "For a period of one year. In that time, you will have the full protection of the Blake name. The Donaldsons, the Balls... they won't be able to touch you."

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze intense. "I will provide you with any and all resources you require. Capital, connections, information. Whatever you need to build your own enterprise and exact your revenge."

His eyes held hers. "In return, you will perform the duties of Mrs. Blake. Attend family functions. Present a united front to the public. Be a wife in name."

Fiona's fingers felt numb as she reached for the document. She flipped it open. The clauses were precise, the terms shockingly generous. It was a deal designed to be irresistible. But all she felt was a cold, suffocating dread. It was a gilded cage.

"Why me?" she asked, the question raw. "We're strangers. You could have anyone."

Ewart's expression was unreadable. "Because you're intelligent. You're resourceful. And..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "You fit a specific requirement set by my grandfather." He offered a sliver of the truth, expertly hiding the core of the real, binding family contract.

Fiona detected the evasion, a subtle shift in his tone, but she had no way to grasp the full picture. The offer was a lifeline, a weapon, everything she needed. But the price was herself.

Her pride, the one thing the Donaldsons hadn't managed to beat out of her, rebelled.

"No," she said, her voice firm. She closed the agreement and pushed it back across the table. She stood up. "I refuse. I'll get my own revenge. I am not for sale."

Ewart didn't look surprised. He seemed to have anticipated this. He simply picked up a business card from the table and held it out to her.

"My private number," he said calmly. "The offer stands. Call me when reality proves to be more difficult than you imagine."

Fiona didn't take the card. She turned and walked to the door, her back straight. This time, he didn't stop her. The lock clicked open, and she stepped out into the hallway, leaving him and his devil's bargain behind.

The cold New York air hit her like a slap, clearing some of the fog from her head. She hailed a cab, the motion automatic.

"Donaldson Manor," she told the driver, the address tasting like ash in her mouth.

She had to go back. One last time. To get what was hers. To make the final cut.

The manor was quiet when she arrived, an oppressive silence hanging in the air. She walked through the grand foyer, her footsteps echoing on the marble floor. She was heading for her room to pack the few things that mattered when she passed Bette's bedroom.

The sound of laughter drifted from behind the closed door. Chip's laugh.

"...just wait until Cyrus officially kicks Fiona out. You'll be the only Miss Donaldson then."

"And your engagement will be to me," Bette's voice was a triumphant purr. "Just like it always should have been."

A white-hot rage, pure and absolute, incinerated every last shred of restraint Fiona possessed.

She didn't knock.

She drew back her leg and kicked the door open. The wood splintered near the lock and the door flew inward, slamming against the wall.

Chip and Bette scrambled apart on the bed, their faces a comical mask of shock and fear. They were disheveled, Bette wearing nothing but a silk robe. A robe Fiona recognized. It was hers.

Fiona stood in the doorway, her shadow falling over them. Her expression was terrifyingly calm.

"Having fun?" Her voice was so cold it could have frozen fire. "In my robe, on my sister's bed, with my fiancé... planning my replacement?"