Alexia Vaughan woke up with the sensation that her bones had been dismantled and reassembled incorrectly.

She opened her eyes to the expansive ceiling of the Manhattan penthouse. A sharp, pulling ache radiated through her thighs and lower back. The physical pain instantly triggered the chaotic memories of last night.

Panic seized her throat. She scrambled to grab the silk duvet, pulling it up to her chin to cover the red marks blooming across her collarbones and chest.

She turned her head. The right side of the massive velvet bed was empty. The sheets were cold.

There was no note on the nightstand. Only a sleek, silent smartphone sat on the glass surface. The cold metal casing mirrored the ruthless detachment of the man who had left it there.

The heavy double doors of the master bedroom swung open without a knock.

Mabel Cromwell, the estate manager, walked in. Her stiff, immaculate uniform contrasted sharply with the suffocating silence of the room.

Mabel's cold eyes scanned the rumpled sheets like a barcode reader. Her gaze finally locked onto Alexia's trembling shoulders. A microscopic sneer pulled at the corner of the older woman's mouth.

Mabel set a solid silver tray down on the nightstand. The sudden vibration caused the glass of water to rattle against the metal, emitting a sharp, piercing clink.

Alexia flinched, her muscles pulling tight.

She looked down at the tray. A foil blister pack lay in the center, with a single, white Plan B pill pushed out and resting starkly against the silver.

The blood drained from Alexia's face. A cold numbness spread from her scalp down to her fingertips.

"Take it," Mabel said. Her perfect Upper East Side accent dripped with disdain for the girl from the bottom of the social ladder.

Alexia's lips trembled. She opened her mouth, her voice barely a whisper. "Did Holmes... did Mr. Fowler ask you to give this to me?"

"Mr. Fowler never leaves loose ends," Mabel cut her off, her tone hard as concrete.

The words hit Alexia's chest like a sledgehammer. Her vision blurred with hot moisture. She dug her fingernails into her palms, refusing to let the tears fall in front of a woman who already looked at her like trash.

To salvage whatever microscopic shred of dignity she had left, Alexia reached out. Her fingers shook as she picked up the pill.

She didn't touch the water. She tossed the pill into her mouth and swallowed hard.

The dry chalk scratched the back of her throat, triggering a violent gag reflex. She clamped a hand over her mouth, forcing it down. She lifted her chin, meeting Mabel's judgmental stare, proving she knew her place.

Mabel picked up the tray. "Good. Don't forget what you are to him."

The housekeeper turned and walked out, pulling the heavy door shut with a definitive click.

The sound of the lock engaging shattered Alexia's remaining defenses. She collapsed forward, burying her face into the pillow. The fabric still smelled of Holmes' cedar and bergamot cologne.

A suppressed, broken sob tore its way out of her throat.

Last night, he had whispered her name against her skin. Today, she was just a transaction. The whiplash made her stomach heave.

She had to get out. She threw off the duvet, her legs shaking so badly she nearly collapsed as her bare feet hit the hardwood floor.

She stumbled into the marble bathroom and twisted the shower handle all the way to cold.

The freezing water blasted against her bruised skin. She grabbed a loofah and scrubbed at the marks on her neck and collarbones until the skin turned raw and stinging.

Stepping out, she ignored the walk-in closet filled with custom haute couture Holmes had bought for her. She dug into the back of a drawer and pulled out a faded grey hoodie and cheap denim jeans.

She shoved her heavy university textbooks into a canvas tote bag. The harsh zip of the bag echoed in the silent room, sounding like a severed connection.

Alexia walked out into the massive living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the glittering Manhattan skyline. She felt smaller than an insect against the glass.

A man in a black suit stepped forward near the entryway. "Miss Vaughan, where are you going?"

Alexia sidestepped the bodyguard. Her face was pale, but her voice was dead. "Do not follow me."

The bodyguard hesitated, surprised by the sudden ice in her tone. He reached for his earpiece to contact his superior.

Alexia didn't wait. She practically sprinted into the private elevator and hit the lobby button.

The doors slid shut, cutting off the view of the penthouse. The sudden drop of the elevator made her stomach lurch. She slid down the cool metal wall and hit the floor, gasping for air.

When the doors opened at the lobby, she forced herself to stand. She kept her head down, ignoring the receptionist's probing stare, and pushed through the revolving glass doors.

The morning wind of New York hit her face. It smelled of exhaust fumes and bitter coffee. It filled her empty lungs.

Her phone vibrated in her hoodie pocket.

She pulled it out. A text from her younger brother, Karson, flashed on the screen.

Alex, I'm at the Brooklyn precinct. They locked me up. I need bail money now.

Alexia's pupils contracted. Her heart, which had just shattered, violently kick-started again.

She bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. She shoved the phone back into her pocket and stepped off the curb, waving her hand frantically.

A yellow cab screeched to a halt. She pulled open the door.

"NYPD Brooklyn precinct. Hurry," she choked out.

The cab merged into the aggressive traffic. Alexia stared out the window at the blurring streets, her hands twisted into tight knots in her lap. The swamp of her reality was pulling her right back under.

Alexia pushed open the heavy glass doors of the NYPD Brooklyn precinct. The smell hit her instantly-a nauseating mix of industrial bleach, stale coffee, and unwashed bodies.

The lobby was a chaotic mess. Officers shouted over ringing phones, and handcuffed suspects cursed loudly from wooden benches. She kept her head down, weaving through the crowd until she reached the chipped paint of the reception desk.

"Karson Vaughan," she told the desk sergeant, her voice tight.

The officer didn't look up from his computer. He flipped through a stained logbook. "ID. And bail is five hundred. Cash."

Alexia's hands shook as she unzipped her tote bag. She pulled out her worn wallet. Inside were five crisp hundred-dollar bills and a lone, crumpled ten—the absolute entirety of her meager savings, scraped together from months of exhausting shifts at the campus bookstore.

Her fingertips went numb as she slid the cash under the plexiglass window.

The officer hit a few keys and grabbed his radio. "Bring Vaughan up."

A heavy metal door clanged open at the end of the hallway.

A tall officer shoved Karson forward. The teenager's white t-shirt was splattered with dried blood. His lip was split wide open, and his left cheekbone was swollen into a purple knot.

Alexia gasped. The air rushed out of her lungs. She ran forward, reaching out to touch his bruised face.

Karson jerked his head away, dodging her hand.

He refused to look her in the eye. He snatched his plastic bag of belongings from the officer with aggressive, rebellious energy.

Alexia signed the release papers. Her hand trembled so violently that the pen tore through the cheap paper. She grabbed Karson's bicep and dragged him toward the exit.

They walked out into the harsh sunlight of the Brooklyn streets in dead silence. Overhead, an elevated subway train roared past, rattling the concrete beneath their feet and drowning out the city noise.

As the train faded, Alexia ripped her hand away from his arm.

"Why?" she demanded, her voice shaking with suppressed rage. "Why are you fighting street thugs, Karson?"

Karson spun around like a cornered animal. "Because they were talking trash! They were calling you names, Alex!"

Alexia froze. The blood drained from her face. Her fingers instinctively curled into the fabric of her hoodie. "What did they say?"

Karson's eyes were red. He gritted his teeth, spitting the words out. "They said you're a sugar baby. They said you're letting some Manhattan billionaire use your body to pay for your fancy life."

The words sliced through Alexia's eardrums like razor blades.

The memory of the white Plan B pill from this morning flashed in her mind. A wave of profound, suffocating shame crashed over her.

Her entire body began to shake. She raised her right hand, fully intending to slap the insolence out of him. But as her hand hovered in the air, she saw the fresh blood oozing from his split lip.

Her arm dropped to her side.

She covered her face with both hands. The tears finally broke through. "You have no idea," she sobbed, her chest heaving. "You have no idea what I do to keep this family afloat."

Seeing her break down shattered Karson's tough exterior. He stepped forward, his hands hovering awkwardly, wanting to wipe her tears.

Alexia shoved him back.

Karson looked at the ground. His voice cracked. "I didn't just fight them because of the rumors, Alex. I fought them because I was pissed."

Alexia stopped crying. She lowered her hands. A cold, venomous dread wrapped around her heart.

Karson took a deep, shuddering breath. "Dozier went back to the underground tables. He lost it all. The money you sent home last month... it's gone."

The news hit her like a physical blow. Alexia stumbled backward. Her shoulder blades hit the rough brick wall of an alleyway. Her brain short-circuited.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head frantically. "That was for Mom's prescriptions. That was for the rent. He wouldn't."

Karson punched the brick wall. His knuckles split open, smearing blood on the red clay. "He's a parasite, Alex! He's going to drag us both down until we're dead!"

The crushing weight of her reality closed in on her. The endless black hole of her family. The transaction of her body. She couldn't breathe.

Alexia slid down the rough brick wall until she hit the pavement. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs, trying to hold herself together.

Karson dropped down next to her. He wrapped his arms around her shaking shoulders, pulling her into a tight, desperate hug. He rested his chin on the top of her head. "I'll get a job. I swear, I'll take care of you."

The warmth of her brother's body was the only real thing she had left. Alexia buried her face in his shoulder and wailed.

When the tears finally stopped, her throat felt like sandpaper. She wiped her face with the back of her sleeve and forced herself to stand up. She pulled Karson up with her.

She dug into her wallet and pulled out a crumpled ten-dollar bill. She shoved it into his hand.

"Go to the pharmacy. Buy some bandages. Then go straight to school," she ordered, her voice dead and hollow.

Karson looked back at her three times as he walked toward the subway entrance.

Alexia stood alone on the freezing street corner. She pulled her phone out of her pocket. The screen was completely black. Dead battery.

Alexia pushed open the glass door of a greasy corner diner. A rusted bell clanked above her head. The heavy scent of cheap frying oil and burnt coffee assaulted her nose.

She walked up to the sticky laminate counter. "Please," she whispered to the waitress with heavily tattooed arms. "Can I use your landline? I'll buy a black coffee."

The waitress took one look at Alexia's pale, tear-streaked face and slid a grease-stained rotary phone across the counter.

Alexia took a deep breath. Her fingers trembled as she dialed the Manhattan number she knew by heart.

The line rang. Each dial tone felt like a needle in her brain.

The call connected. Holmes Fowler's voice vibrated through the earpiece-low, dark, and heavy with an oppressive weight. "Four hours. Your phone has been off for four hours."

Alexia's heart seized. She gripped the coiled phone cord so tightly her knuckles turned white. "I... I was at the NYU library," she stammered, forcing the lie out. "My battery died."

Dead silence echoed on the other end. Only the sound of his slow, measured breathing traveled through the wire, stripping away her pathetic defense.

A few seconds later, Holmes let out a low, humorless laugh. His voice dropped to a terrifying calm. "Stay exactly where you are."

The line went dead.

Panic spiked in Alexia's chest. She shoved the phone back to the waitress, grabbed the scalding mug of black coffee, and took a frantic gulp. The liquid burned her tongue, but she didn't care.

Every instinct screamed at her to run. She dropped two quarters on the counter, pushed through the diner doors, and power-walked down the sidewalk, trying to blend into the sparse Brooklyn crowd.

She didn't make it half a block.

A pitch-black Maybach tore around the corner like a phantom. The tires shrieked against the asphalt as it slammed on the brakes, cutting off her path completely.

Pedestrians stopped and stared. The tinted rear window rolled down smoothly.

Holmes Fowler sat in the shadows of the backseat. His face was a mask of lethal fury.

His eyes locked onto her. The sheer force of his Alpha presence sucked the oxygen out of the street. Alexia's legs turned to jelly.

The passenger door popped open. A massive bodyguard stepped out, his face completely blank. He extended an arm toward the open back door, blocking her only escape route.

Alexia bit her lower lip, tasting the copper from earlier. She moved like a mechanical doll, dragging her feet across the pavement, and climbed into the back of the Maybach.

The heavy door slammed shut. The noise of the city vanished.

The air pressure inside the cabin was suffocating. Holmes sat with his long legs crossed, staring down at her with absolute zero temperature in his eyes.

Alexia pressed her back against the opposite door, trying to put as much leather between them as possible.

Holmes moved. His hand shot out like a steel trap, wrapping around her wrist. He yanked her across the seat, pulling her hard against his chest.

His long fingers gripped her chin, tilting her face up. His sharp gaze dissected her pale skin and her swollen, red eyes.

"The library?" Holmes sneered. He rattled off the exact address of the Brooklyn precinct, the street corner where she argued with Karson, and the diner she just left. Down to the exact minute.

Alexia's eyes widened in pure horror.

She realized it then. The phone he had given her. It wasn't just a gift. He had installed a military-grade GPS tracker in it. Even dead, it pinged her last location.

A violent shiver racked her spine. The absolute control he had over her made her sick to her stomach. She thrashed against him, trying to rip her wrist out of his grip.

His fingers tightened, bruising her skin.

Holmes leaned down. His warm breath brushed against her ear. "Never lie to me again, Alexia," he whispered, the soft tone making the threat infinitely more dangerous.

Tears spilled over her eyelashes. She turned her head away, squeezing her eyes shut, refusing to look at the monster holding her captive.

The Maybach glided through the Manhattan traffic, descending into the private underground garage of the penthouse building.

Before the car even fully stopped, Holmes dragged her out by the wrist. He marched toward the private elevator, his long strides forcing her to stumble and jog just to keep up.

The elevator shot up to the top floor. The doors parted. Holmes half-carried, half-dragged her into the massive living room she had fled that morning.

Mabel stood near the foyer. Her eyes widened in shock at the sight of Alexia being hauled in, but she quickly bowed her head.

"Get out. Everyone," Holmes barked.

Within seconds, the staff vanished. The living room was dead silent, thick with explosive tension.

Holmes shoved her backward. Alexia fell onto the plush velvet sofa. Before she could sit up, he planted both hands on the backrest on either side of her head, caging her in.

Alexia looked up at the man who controlled her entire existence. The humiliation of the morning and the terror of the afternoon collided, dragging her down into a bottomless pit of despair.