Elena's POV
The black Mercedes idles at the curb like a predator waiting to strike.
I can't see through the tinted windows, but I know Damian is inside. I can feel his eyes on me, burning through the glass and rain.
Adrian's hand closes around my wrist—firm but not cruel. Nothing like Damian's grip that leaves marks.
"Inside. Now." His voice is a command, not a request.
He pulls me through the lobby doors. The doorman locks them behind us with a sharp click that sounds too final. I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter.
Adrian doesn't let go of my wrist. He positions himself between me and the glass doors, his body a wall. Through the rain-streaked windows, I watch a car door open.
Damian steps out.
Even from here, even through the storm, he looks perfect. Expensive suit, styled hair, that smile that once made me feel like the luckiest girl alive. Now it just makes my stomach turn.
He walks toward the building like he owns it. Like he owns me.
"Mr. Cross," the doorman says nervously. "Should I—"
"Let him knock," Adrian says. His tone could freeze fire. "Don't open those doors."
Damian reaches the entrance. His fist pounds against the glass—once, twice, three times. The sound echoes through the empty lobby.
"Elena!" His voice is muffled but I hear the false concern, the act he's so good at performing. "Baby, please. You're scaring me. Whatever happened, we can talk about it."
I press myself against the wall, trying to become invisible. It's an old habit.
Adrian doesn't move. He stands perfectly still, watching his brother through the glass with an expression I can't read.
"I know she's in there, Adrian." Damian's mask is slipping now. His voice hardens. "This is between me and my girlfriend. Stay out of it."
"Ex-girlfriend," Adrian says, though Damian probably can't hear him.
My heart hammers against my ribs. The USB drive in my hand feels like it weighs a thousand pounds. Eight months of evidence. Recorded phone calls of Damian arranging illegal drug trials. Photos of falsified research reports. Financial records showing payments to doctors who covered up patient deaths.
Enough to send him to prison for life.
Enough to get me killed if he gets it back.
"Please," I whisper to Adrian. "Please don't let him take me."
Adrian finally looks at me. Really looks at me. His storm-gray eyes move from my bleeding feet to my torn dress to the cut on my palm that's still dripping blood onto his pristine marble floor.
Something shifts in his expression. Something cold and dangerous.
He turns back to Damian and pulls out his phone. He types something, and seconds later, Damian's phone buzzes. I watch him read the message through the glass.
Damian's face goes dark with rage. He slams his fist against the door one more time, hard enough to make me flinch. Then he points at me through the glass. That gesture—I've seen it before. It means: You're mine. You'll always be mine. You can't escape.
He gets back in his Mercedes and drives away.
I don't realize I'm crying until Adrian hands me a handkerchief. It's black, perfectly folded. Even his handkerchief is controlled and precise.
"Thank you," I manage.
"Don't thank me yet." He nods toward the elevator. "Come."
We ride up in silence. I count the floors: 10, 15, 20, 25. The elevator doesn't stop until 30—the penthouse. Of course Adrian Cross lives in a penthouse.
The doors open directly into his apartment. No hallway, no neighbors. Just vast space filled with expensive furniture I'm too scared to look at properly. Floor-to-ceiling windows show the Manhattan skyline, rain streaming down the glass like tears.
A man appears from another room—broad-shouldered, maybe forty, with kind eyes that crinkle at the corners. He takes one look at me and his expression softens.
"Jesus, Adrian."
"Marcus, this is Elena Moretti." Adrian finally releases my wrist. "Elena, Marcus Webb. He runs my security operations."
Marcus is already moving, grabbing what looks like a first-aid kit from a cabinet. "Let's get you cleaned up, honey."
The kindness in his voice almost breaks me. I haven't heard kindness in so long.
"We have two hours," Adrian says. "Maybe less."
"Two hours until what?" I ask.
"Until Damian figures out how to get to you." Adrian's tone is matter-of-fact, like he's discussing the weather. "He's persistent when he wants something."
"He doesn't want me." The words slip out before I can stop them. "He wants to own me. There's a difference."
Adrian's jaw tightens. "Sit. You're leaving blood on my floor."
I sit on the pristine white couch, too tired to care that I'm ruining it. Marcus kneels in front of me with the first-aid kit, his movements gentle as he examines my feet.
"This is going to sting," he warns before cleaning the cuts with antiseptic.
I barely feel it. Physical pain is easy. It's the other kind that destroys you.
Adrian stands by the windows, hands in his pockets, watching the rain. Or maybe watching for Damian's car to return.
"Why did you come to me?" he asks without turning around.
I clutch the USB drive tighter. "I heard Damian talking to you once. On the phone. He was drunk. He said you owed him a favor for keeping quiet about something you did."
Adrian turns. His eyes are sharp. "And you thought you could cash in that favor?"
"I thought..." I swallow hard. "I thought anyone Damian was afraid of might be willing to help me."
"I'm not a good man, Elena." His voice is flat. "I've done things that would give you nightmares. Things Damian knows about and could use to destroy me."
"I don't need a good man." My voice is stronger now. "I need someone who can stop a monster."
Marcus finishes bandaging my feet. He looks between Adrian and me like he's watching something important happen.
Adrian studies me for a long moment. Then he walks over and crouches in front of me, putting himself at eye level. This close, I can see the scars on his knuckles, the hard set of his jaw, the exhaustion hidden behind his control.
"What's on the drive?" he asks quietly.
"Everything." My hand shakes as I hold it out. "Eight months of evidence. Enough to send him to prison for life."
Adrian takes the drive, his fingers brushing mine. "You've been planning this for eight months?"
"I've been surviving for three years. Planning was all I had left."
Something flickers in his eyes—respect, maybe. Or recognition. Like he knows what it means to survive.
He stands, slipping the USB into his pocket. "You can stay here tonight. Tomorrow, we figure out what comes next."
Relief crashes over me so hard I almost sob. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me," he says again. "You might not like what comes next."
Before I can ask what he means, his phone buzzes. He looks at the screen, and his entire body goes rigid.
"What?" Marcus asks, standing. "What is it?"
Adrian's voice is deadly calm when he speaks. "Damian just posted on social media. He's offering a reward—one million dollars to anyone who can tell him where Elena is."
The room spins. A million dollars. In New York City, someone will talk. Someone always talks.
"How long do we have?" I whisper.
Adrian looks at me, and for the first time, I see something human in his cold eyes.
Fear.
"Until morning," he says. "Maybe less."
His phone buzzes again. And again. And again.
People are already calling.