Vincent’s dark eyes locked onto hers, cold and calculated, yet burning with an unreadable intensity. The bass continued to thump through the velvet-lined walls of the club, but in their small orbit, time had entirely stopped.

The rain poured down in heavy sheets as a sleek, bulletproof matte-black SUV glided through the iron gates of the Moretti estate on the outskirts of Chicago. Towering stone walls, high-tech security cameras, and armed guards patrolled the perimeter. To the outside world, it was a fortress. To Nora, it felt like entering a gilded cage.

Inside the grand foyer, chandeliers cast a warm golden light over marble floors. Nora stood awkwardly in her rain-soaked clothes, clutching her small canvas bag like a shield.

Vincent removed his tailored coat and handed it to an elderly butler named Arthur. He turned to face Nora, evaluating her with that same terrifyingly precise gaze.

“Arthur will show you to your quarters on the east wing,” Vincent instructed. “You’ll find clean clothes, a bath, and a hot meal. My personal physician will be here in twenty minutes to check your wrist.”

Nora blinked in surprise, instinctively wrapping her right hand over her left wrist—where Cameron had violently twisted her arm three days ago. She hadn’t told Vincent about it. How had he known?

“You flinched every time my hand brushed your forearm in the car,” Vincent said smoothly, reading her mind. “I pay attention to details, Miss Bennett. It’s why I’m still alive.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” she said softly, her pride digging in. “And I don’t need your pity.”

“It isn’t pity. It’s maintenance,” he replied coolly. “If you are to play the woman who captured my attention, you cannot look like a victim. Tomorrow morning, my stylists arrive. Tomorrow night, you make your first public appearance with me at the Syndicate Gala.”

“The Syndicate Gala?” Nora’s eyes widened. “Vincent, I’m a diner waitress! I don’t know how to navigate high society, let alone a room full of crime lords and crooked politicians!”

Vincent took three slow steps toward her until he was standing directly over her. The scent of cedar and expensive tobacco washed over her senses, intoxicating and intimidating all at once.

“You don’t have to act like high society, Nora. You just have to act like you belong to me. When you are with me, you look down on everyone else in the room. Can you do that?”

She met his gaze, refusing to back down this time. “I spent two years surviving a monster who tried to erase me. Trust me, Mr. Moretti... playing a role isn’t that hard.”

A spark of genuine intrigue flashed in Vincent’s dark eyes. “Good. Get some rest. Tomorrow, the real war begins.”

Upstairs, in a luxurious bedroom larger than her entire apartment, Nora sank into a plush velvet armchair after taking a warm bath. But her peace was short-lived. Her new burner phone—placed on the nightstand by Arthur—vibrated on the table.

She picked it up. An unknown number had sent a single image.

It was a photograph of her younger brother, Leo, leaving his college dorm room in Boston. Below the picture was a text message: