Camisha's hand gripped the cold brass doorknob. Her knuckles turned white. She didn't breathe. If she didn't move, maybe he would leave. Maybe he was a hallucination brought on by stress and lack of sleep.

"Open the door, Camisha," Hart's voice came through the wood. It wasn't loud. It was authoritative. It was the voice of a man who owned the building, the land, and the air she was breathing. "I know you're in there."

She unlocked the deadbolt. The click sounded like a bone snapping.

She opened the door just a crack. "Go away."

Hart didn't go away. He planted a leather oxford shoe in the gap and pushed. He didn't shove; he just applied steady, irresistible pressure. Camisha stumbled back.

Hart stepped into the small entryway. He filled the space. He smelled of rain and expensive sandalwood. He looked around the modest living room-the worn beige carpet, the second-hand sofa, the pile of laundry on the chair.

His lip curled. "Charming."

"Get out," Camisha said. Her voice shook, but she stood her ground. "You have no right to be here."

"I have every right." Hart reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded document. He tossed it onto the small dining table. "You violated your NDA. You stole confidential company data when you left. That's a federal crime, Camisha. I could have the police here in five minutes."

"I didn't steal anything," she lied. She had stolen insurance. Evidence of his family's tax evasion. But he couldn't know that yet.

"Don't lie to me." Hart took a step closer. The air between them crackled with tension. "Pack your bags. You're coming back to New York to sign the trust documents. Then you can rot in whatever hole you choose."

From the bedroom down the hall, a sound drifted out. A cough. Wet and heavy.

"Mommy?"

Hart froze. His head snapped toward the hallway. "Who is that?"

Camisha's stomach dropped to her feet. "No one."

"That didn't sound like no one." Hart moved toward the hallway.

"Stop!" Camisha threw herself in front of him. She grabbed the lapels of his wet coat. "He's my son. You can't go in there. He's sick. It's contagious."

Hart looked down at her hands on his chest. For a second, his eyes softened. He remembered her hands. He remembered how she used to organize his desk. Then the ice returned.

"Your son?" Hart's voice was laced with cynical disbelief. He looked from her defiant face back toward the door. The timeline was tight, but possible. The thought was a splinter of ice in his gut. He pushed past her.

"Hart, please!"

He opened the bedroom door.

The room was dark. The rocket ship nightlight cast long shadows. On the bed, a small lump moved.

Leo sat up. Camisha had rushed in just seconds before Hart, managing to pull a surgical mask over Leo's face.

"Mommy?" Leo rubbed his eyes. The mask covered his nose and mouth. Only his eyes were visible.

Gray eyes.

Hart stared at the boy. He felt a weird thrum in his chest, a vibration he couldn't name. He looked at the boy's eyes, then back at Camisha.

"Who is the father?" Hart demanded. The jealousy hit him out of nowhere. It was irrational. It was violent.

"An ex-boyfriend," Camisha said quickly. "He died. Before Leo was born."

"You move on quickly," Hart scoffed. "We were married three years ago."

"It was a contract, Hart. Not a marriage."

Hart looked back at the boy. The kid looked sickly. Weak. He felt a sudden urge to leave. He hated hospitals. He hated sickness.

He turned around and walked back to the living room. He pulled a black American Express card from his wallet and threw it on the floor.

"Get a nanny for the dead boyfriend's kid. I don't care. We leave at 6:00 AM."

"I can't leave him," Camisha said. She picked up the card and threw it back at him. It hit his chest and fluttered to the floor. "I'm not going."

Hart stared at the card on the dirty carpet. No one refused him.

He stepped forward, crowding her against the wall. He placed a hand on the wall beside her head. "Then I call the FBI. You go to prison for corporate espionage. And Child Protective Services takes the boy. Is that what you want?"

Camisha stopped breathing. He found the one lever she couldn't fight. If she went to jail, Leo went into the system. Without her, without his medication, he would die.

"Fine," she whispered. The fight drained out of her. "But he comes with me. He can't be left with anyone else."

Hart rolled his eyes. "Fine. Just keep him out of my sight."

He turned and walked out into the rain.

Camisha slid down the wall until she hit the floor. She reached into her pocket and clutched a crumpled piece of paper. It wasn't a tax document. It was a genetic report. Whitney Family Congenital Disorder.

He was taking them into the lion's den.

The private jet was a flying palace of cream leather and polished walnut. It smelled of money.

Camisha sat in the back corner, Leo strapped into the seat beside her. He was clutching a ragged, stuffed bear that was missing an eye. His mask was still on.

Hart sat across the aisle, typing furiously on a laptop. He hadn't looked at them since takeoff.

Leo squirmed. He was three. He was bored. He wiggled his legs, and the bear slipped from his grip. It tumbled across the aisle and landed on Hart's polished shoe.

Hart stopped typing. He looked down at the bear.

Camisha held her breath. "Leo, don't-"

Hart bent down. He picked up the bear by its ear. He looked at it with disdain, but instead of tossing it aside, he held it out.

Leo reached for it. His small fingers brushed against Hart's large hand.

Zap.

A static shock snapped between them. Hart pulled his hand back sharply. He rubbed his fingertips, frowning. He looked at Leo, really looked at him, for a second. The boy's hair was messy, just like Hart's was in the mornings.

"Thank you," Leo whispered behind the mask.

"Keep your things contained," Hart said, his voice flat. He went back to typing.

The intercom crackled. "Preparing for landing at JFK."

Twenty minutes later, the jet taxied to a halt. The stairs lowered.

"Stay close," Hart muttered to Camisha.

They stepped out into the blinding pop of flashbulbs.

"Hart! Hart! Over here!"

"Is it true the stock is tanking?"

"Who is the woman?"

At the bottom of the stairs, Isadora Roth stood like a queen holding court. She was surrounded by reporters. She smiled when she saw Hart, but her smile faltered when she saw Camisha and the child.

"Oh my," Isadora said loudly, her voice carrying over the cameras. "Hart, you didn't tell me your... ex-employee had a child. Is that why she left? A scandalous pregnancy?"

The cameras went wild. Click-click-click.

Camisha shrank back, shielding Leo's face. She felt exposed. Dirty.

Hart stopped. He looked at Isadora. He saw the setup. She had called them.

He took off his suit jacket. In one fluid motion, he draped it over Camisha's head, covering Leo as well. It was a tent of protection. It smelled like him-cedar and safety.

"Get in the car," Hart ordered Camisha.

He turned to Isadora. His eyes were cold enough to freeze the tarmac. "You overstepped."

"I was just welcoming you," Isadora stammered, reaching for his arm.

"Don't," Hart said. He turned his back on her and got into the waiting SUV.

The drive to the Whitney Estate was silent. The partition was up.

"You didn't have to do that," Camisha said, pulling the jacket off.

"I didn't do it for you," Hart said, staring out the window. "I did it for the stock price. I don't need a tabloid scandal about my ex-wife running a daycare."

The car pulled up to the massive iron gates. The estate loomed ahead, a fortress of stone.

Inside, Alfred, the old butler, was waiting. When he saw Camisha, his professional mask crumbled. "Miss Camisha?"

"Hello, Alfred," she gave him a tired smile.

"Put them in the East Wing guest rooms," Hart barked. "Not the main hall."

That night, the house was silent.

Camisha waited until Leo's breathing evened out. She checked the hallway. Empty.

She needed leverage. The tax documents she had were digital copies, but she needed the physical originals to make the threat real. She knew Hart kept a hard drive in his study safe.

She crept down the hallway, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet. She slipped into the study. It smelled of old books and bourbon.

She went to the painting of the ship behind the desk and swung it open. The safe was there. She typed in the old code: 0428. His birthday.

Beep. Error.

She tried again. 1015. The day he became CEO.

Beep. Error. A red light began to flash.

The door handle to the study turned.

Camisha's heart stopped. She couldn't hide. She grabbed a book from the desk-The Art of War-and spun around just as the door opened.

Hart stood there. He was wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt. It was the most casual she had ever seen him.

He saw her. He saw the safe behind her.

Camisha didn't think. She walked right up to him, closing the distance until she was inches away. She held up the book.

"I couldn't sleep," she said, her voice breathless. "I was looking for something to read."

Hart looked at the book. Then he looked at her. He stepped closer. He was so close she could feel the heat radiating off his chest.

"You never read Sun Tzu," Hart said softly. "You used to read Vogue."

"People change, Hart."

He reached out. She thought he was going to push her away. Instead, his hand brushed her arm, moving up to take the book. His thumb grazed her skin.

For a second, they weren't enemies. They were just two people who knew each other's rhythms in the dark.

"Get out of my study, Camisha," he whispered. But he didn't move out of the way.