Kendell rushed forward, placing himself between them. His face was pale with panic. "Finnegan, I'm sorry. She just moved here from out of state. She doesn't know how things work."

Finnegan's gaze never left Caprice's face, looking right over Kendell's shoulder as if he wasn't there.

"Harrison Steele's new wife is Eleanor, isn't she?" Finnegan asked, his tone casual, but the question was a targeted missile.

At the mention of her mother's name, Caprice's blood ran cold. The defiance in her posture crumbled, replaced by a rigid, defensive tension. How did he know her mother's name?

"I read about the wedding," he continued smoothly, offering a plausible lie. "This is no place for Eleanor's daughter. The air is...unclean." His eyes held hers, and she felt stripped bare, as if he could see every fear she had. Her breathing grew shallow.

He finally turned his head, his gaze falling on Kendell. "I'm taking her home." It was a statement of fact, not an offer.

Kendell stared, dumbfounded. "What? No, I can-"

Finnegan's eyes narrowed slightly. It was a subtle shift, but it carried the weight of billion-dollar deals and ruined careers. "Are you questioning my judgment, Kendell?"

Kendell's protest died on his lips. He weighed his options for a split second-his pride versus the very real threat Finnegan posed to his family's business interests. The choice was obvious. He looked away, his jaw tight with resentment. "Fine. Take her."

Caprice stared at her stepbrother in disbelief. The word 'betrayal' felt inadequate. It was a cold, hard transaction. He was handing her over like a parcel.

"No," she said, her voice shaking with rage. "I'm not going anywhere with him."

"Shut up, Caprice," Kendell snapped, his own humiliation making him cruel. "Don't be an idiot."

A chilling clarity washed over her. In this world, in this family, she was nothing. A piece on a board, to be moved or sacrificed at will.

Finnegan stepped to the side, gesturing toward the door with an air of mock politeness. The gesture was an order.

She clenched her jaw, grabbed her cheap handbag from the booth, and turned. But instead of walking toward the door with him, she deliberately shouldered past Kendell, the sharp impact a small, pathetic act of rebellion.

She didn't look at Finnegan. She just walked, fast, out of the VIP room and into the relative anonymity of the corridor.

The cool air of the hallway did little to calm the fire in her veins. She glanced back. He wasn't following. Not yet.

She picked up her pace, her heels clacking on the polished floor. She practically ran down the stairs, ignoring the curious looks from other patrons. The two security guards at the entrance saw her coming but made no move to stop her.

She pushed through the heavy glass revolving door and burst out into the freezing Manhattan night.

The icy air hit her lungs like a physical blow. A violent cough seized her, doubling her over. Her chest tightened in a familiar, terrifying way. Asthma. The attack was coming.

Her hands flew to her bag, frantically digging for her inhaler. Her fingers met keys, a wallet, a tube of lip balm. Nothing. She had left it in her other purse.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through her anger. She straightened up, forcing herself to breathe slowly, and started walking quickly down the street, heading for the distant, welcoming glow of a subway station.

Then she heard it. A low, powerful engine purr, a sound that was too smooth, too expensive for a city taxi.

She whipped her head around.

A solid black Maybach was gliding out of the club's private garage, its headlights cutting through the darkness like the eyes of a panther.