The first rays of dawn were streaking the sky in shades of grey and pink as Gwen emerged from the hospital. She didn't go home. She walked to the nearest subway station, the city slowly waking around her.

In the grimy public restroom, she stared at her reflection. Her eyes were red and swollen, her makeup smeared. She looked like a victim. She couldn't afford to look like a victim.

She splashed her face with icy water, the shock of it helping to clear her head. From her purse, she pulled out a tube of concealer and meticulously began to repair the damage, layering it under her eyes until the dark circles of grief and exhaustion were masked. She reapplied her lipstick, a bold red that felt like armor. When she was done, she looked less like a heartbroken woman on the verge of collapse and more like what she was: a professional tax consultant on her way to a meeting.

The subway rattled its way downtown, spitting her out at the Wall Street station. She stepped onto the street and tilted her head back, her eyes tracing the sleek, imposing lines of the Crawford Group headquarters as it soared into the sky, a monument of glass and steel that seemed to scrape the heavens.

She took a deep breath, the air tasting of exhaust fumes and cold ambition. Then she pushed through the revolving glass doors and into the lobby.

The space was cavernous and cold, all polished marble and brushed chrome. It was designed to intimidate, to make you feel small and insignificant. It was working.

Gwen walked to the massive reception desk, her heels clicking an unnervingly loud rhythm on the floor. She placed her business card on the marble countertop.

"I'm here to see Mr. Kingston Crawford," she said, her voice steady, betraying none of the terror churning inside her.

The receptionist, a woman with perfectly coiffed hair and a dismissive smile, glanced at the card and then back at Gwen as if she were something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her shoe. "Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but—"

"Mr. Crawford does not take unscheduled meetings," the woman said, her tone final. She had already turned her attention back to her computer screen.

Gwen wasn't leaving. She turned and walked directly toward a bank of private elevators, cordoned off by a velvet rope. A sign in polished brass read: EXECUTIVE FLOORS - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

"Ma'am! You can't go over there!" the receptionist called out.

Two security guards, built like refrigerators, immediately moved to intercept her. They each took one of her arms, their grips firm and impersonal.

The touch was electric. A jolt of pure panic shot through Gwen's nervous system. Her breath hitched. The marble floor seemed to drop away beneath her. The sounds of the lobby warped and faded. Cold sweat prickled on her skin. Her haphephobia was kicking in, a full-blown panic attack. She was going to scream.

Just as a strangled cry was about to tear from her lips, a soft ding echoed through the lobby. The doors to the central executive elevator slid open.

Out stepped Kingston Crawford.

He was flanked by his assistant and a retinue of executives in dark suits, all of whom fell silent as he emerged. He wore a charcoal grey suit that fit him like a second skin, his expression one of bored, untouchable power. His gaze swept across the lobby, a king surveying his domain, and then it stopped, snagging on the commotion by the elevators.

His eyes locked onto Gwen's. A flicker of recognition. He tilted his head slightly, a slow, predatory smile touching the corners of his mouth. He remembered her.

He lifted his hand and made a small, almost imperceptible flicking gesture with his fingers.

Instantly, the guards released her.

Gwen's legs, which had turned to jelly, gave out. She crumpled to the floor, landing hard on the cold marble. She gasped for air, her lungs burning, her body trembling from the aftershocks of the panic.

A pair of gleaming, hand-stitched leather shoes entered her field of vision, stopping just inches from her. She looked up, past the perfectly creased trousers, up the imposing height of him, to the face that had haunted her since last night.

Kingston Crawford looked down at her, a silent predator observing its fallen prey. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, velvet rumble that cut through the cavernous silence of the lobby.

"Well, well," he said, a note of cruel amusement in his tone. "Are you here for after-sales service?"

The blood rushed to Gwen's face. The executives behind him shifted uncomfortably, trying to pretend they hadn't heard.

Shame warred with desperation, and desperation won. This was her only chance. Laura's only chance.

She reached out, her hand closing around the fabric of his trousers. She clung to him like a drowning woman to a piece of driftwood.

"Please," she whispered, the word raw and broken. "You have to help me. My sister... she needs Dr. Colt Turner. They say you're the only one who can... please, I'll do anything."

A collective gasp went through the executives. They stared, horrified, at this woman groveling at their boss's feet.

Kingston's gaze flickered down to her hand, clutching his leg. He looked surprised, she thought. As if he'd expected her to flinch away from him. He didn't know. He couldn't know.

He crouched down, balancing on the balls of his feet. His fingers, cool and firm, gripped her chin, forcing her to look at him. His icy eyes bored into hers, searching for something.

"A businessman never makes a bad deal," he murmured, his voice so low only she could hear it. The scent of cedar and clean linen filled her senses. "What, exactly, can you offer me?"

Gwen bit her lip, the sharp pain grounding her. She tasted blood. "Anything," she said, her voice shaking but resolute. "Anything but my life."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. He seemed pleased with her answer. He released her chin and stood up, towering over her once more.

He turned to his assistant, a man with a perpetually neutral expression. "Jenson, contact Dr. Turner's office. Clear his schedule. My treat."

The tension in Gwen's body snapped. A wave of dizzying relief washed over her, so powerful it felt like a physical blow. She slumped forward, her forehead touching the cold floor, silent tears of gratitude and humiliation tracing paths through her carefully applied makeup.

Kingston turned to leave, his entourage parting before him like the Red Sea. He walked toward the main entrance where a black Maybach was waiting. Just before he stepped outside, he paused and looked back at her over his shoulder.

"The Plaza Hotel. Eight o'clock tonight," he commanded. "Don't be late."

The car door slammed shut, and the vehicle pulled away, disappearing into the chaos of Wall Street. Gwen pushed herself up, her body aching. Her purse buzzed on the floor beside her.

She picked it up and looked at the screen. A text from Ivan.

Hey, you back to your senses yet? I can forgive you for last night if you're willing to be reasonable.

A cold, bitter smile touched Gwen's lips. She deleted the message, shoved the phone back in her bag, and walked out of the building, her head held high. The deal was made. The devil was waiting.