I was born without the ability to feel pain. For eight years, I was the secret lover and head of security for Wall Street titan Preston Montgomery.

To the elite circles of Manhattan, I was the one constant woman by his side.

Then, Preston’s first love, Martha Astor, crossed the Russian mob boss Nikolai Volkov during an art deal. As retribution, he demanded one of her hands.

Without hesitation, Preston made me take her place. Three of my fingers were shattered instantly.

His logic was that since I couldn't feel pain, it was no real loss. But Martha was an artist, and her hands were her life.

In that moment, I finally understood. To him, I was just an expendable tool.

So, when his arch-nemesis, a rising tech titan, made me an offer, I took it.

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1

I felt no pain, but shock sent a tremor through my body so violent I could barely stand.

Martha Astor screamed at the sight of my mangled fingers. Preston Montgomery gently covered her eyes.

"Don't look, Martha. You're an artist. This brutal scene isn't for your eyes."

Nikolai Volkov scoffed.

"I didn't realize Mr. Montgomery was such a sentimental man. Who would have thought the Wolf of Wall Street needed a woman to take his punishments for him?"

"This is none of your business. You named your price, and I've paid it. Let's go, Briar."

I stumbled after Preston, the world tilting with every step.

Seeing my pale face, Preston frowned.

"Get in the car. I'll take you to the hospital."

I instinctively moved toward the passenger seat, but Preston’s voice stopped me.

"Martha gets carsick. Briar, you get in the back."

Preston smiled dotingly as he opened the passenger door for Martha, carefully shielding her head so she wouldn't bump it.

He didn't spare a single glance for my ruined hand.

The stark contrast was a cold knife in my chest.

I had always known Preston was cold.

Even in our most intimate moments, his touch was one of absolute possession, nothing like the tender way he cherished Martha.

I swallowed my bitterness and climbed into the back seat.

Not long after the convoy started moving, Martha began to cry.

"Preston, the air in here is so suffocating. I can't breathe."

Preston glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Briar's hand is mangled. If we don't get her to a hospital soon…"

Before he could finish, Martha let out another sob, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks.

Preston's hesitation vanished. He ordered the convoy to pull over, the car braking abruptly.

He opened my door and looked down at me, his expression unreadable.

"The hospital is only a few miles from here. Take the subway; it won't take long."

He pressed a cold subway card into my uninjured hand.

I knew what he meant.

Two years ago, I’d taken a bullet for him in a shootout. It was still lodged in my leg.

The old wound meant I couldn't stand for long.

Even now, on rainy days, my right leg felt like it was filled with lead.

Preston had once held me, his voice thick with anguish, and sworn he would never let me get hurt like that again.

Just empty words now.

The moment I closed the car door, his Bentley sped away. The cold autumn rain, thick with exhaust, stung my lungs and made me cough until my eyes watered.

The New York autumn rain was bone-chilling, the dampness seeping deep into my joints, threatening to pull me under.

A bone-deep chill set in. My body swayed. Just as I was about to collapse, a black Maybach glided to a stop before me.

"Miss Connolly, Mr. Larsen sent me to take you to the hospital."

My broken fingers were already swelling to an unnatural size.

The news was on the car's television—the same broadcast playing across the giant screens of Times Square. Preston had reportedly poured tens of millions into funding Martha's personal art gallery. On screen, his smile was full of adoration.

"Compared to Martha's happiness, money is nothing."

My heart seized.

I glanced down at the latest message on my phone.

"An annual salary of two million dollars. What do you say? Come work for me?"

Using my uninjured right hand, I slowly typed my reply.

"Okay."

"How's your hand? Does it still hurt?"

His concern was unexpected, and for a fleeting moment, I was touched.

Just as I was about to answer, Preston noticed the splint on my left hand and his shoulders visibly relaxed.

"I almost forgot. You don't feel pain."

"I have a charity gala later. You're coming with me."

I paused, swallowing the words I wanted to say, and gave a calm nod.

Martha, clinging to Preston's arm, sized me up, her eyes dripping with contempt.

"She looks like a thug in a suit. Some bodyguard. I bet she’s just another social climber trying to sleep her way to the top."

Before she could slap me, I caught her wrist. "Miss Astor," I said evenly, "don't assume everyone is like you."

Martha’s face flushed, shocked that I would dare talk back.

"That's enough. She's just staff, Martha. An artist of your caliber shouldn't waste her energy on the help."

Preston wrapped an arm around her waist, his expression indulgent as he soothed her.

It was a cruel reminder of how things used to be. He was going to a gala, and he'd tell Martha he'd be home soon.

Preston was always busy, with urgent meetings that ran late into the night.

In the past, I would groggily tug on his sleeve and ask where he was going.

He would always push me away.

"Briar, that's not for you to ask."

His sharp tone was like a slap, leaving me pale and stung.

I realized then that I would never be the one he answered to.

In contrast, he willingly reported his every move to Martha.

"You'd better come home early. Don't let some little tramp snare you!"

Martha shot me a triumphant look before making a show of straightening Preston's already perfect tie.

I had once wanted to leave a mark on him, something permanent, like a matching tattoo. A symbol that we were a real couple.

But Preston had refused, calling the idea childish.

Though Martha’s gesture was entirely superfluous against the sharp lines of his expensive suit, Preston showed no sign of impatience.

He was never as oblivious as I had imagined. I just wasn't the one he cared to notice.

After the gala, the car stopped in front of his penthouse.

Confused, I got out and followed Preston. Suddenly, something cold brushed against my neck.

Preston’s fingers grazed my skin, and I froze.

He had bought this necklace, the "Astor's Tear," at a Sotheby's auction for a staggering price.

I had once joked with him that I could never afford it in a lifetime of work.

"Do you like it?"

I hadn't expected him to give it to me. My chest tightened.

I sniffled, on the verge of finally asking him what I was to him, when a hard shove sent me staggering backward.

Caught off guard, I tumbled into the darkness.

Icy pool water flooded my mouth and nose. I sputtered, choking on water as I struggled to find my footing on the pool’s smooth, unforgiving floor.

The splint on my left hand came loose. My broken fingers, submerged in the cold, pulsed with a phantom pain.

In the gloom, Preston stared down at me.

"Briar."

His voice was calm, but it sent a chill straight to my bones.

"You are not Martha. You need to learn your place."

"This necklace is your compensation, and it's a warning. You can get out when you've learned your lesson."

Why?

Why was I the one being punished for talking back once, while Martha could humiliate me without consequence?

Though I couldn't feel the icy sting of the water, a sharp pang of betrayal tightened in my chest, making it hard to breathe.

But I refused to break. I straightened my spine, my silence a wall of defiance against his cold gaze.

After a long time, I tasted blood in my mouth. My head grew heavy, and my vision began to blur. Finally, Preston sighed.

He wrapped a bathrobe around me, ignoring the water dripping from my clothes, and carried me into the elevator.

The apartment was warm. The sight of Martha’s high heels by the door was a stiletto to the heart.

Preston drove me to the Greenwich Village apartment he had once given me. The silence on the way was heavy.

He had given me this apartment, our home.

He hadn't set foot in it since Martha's return.

As he turned to leave, I grabbed his hand.

My voice trembled.

"What am I to you?"