Chapter 1 1

The crystal flute in Eliza Solomon's hand was going to shatter.

She could feel the hairline fractures in the glass pressing against her palm, a perfect mirror of the way her chest felt-tight, brittle, and one breath away from exploding.

"He looks happy, doesn't he?"

The voice came from her left. A socialite in emerald silk, someone Eliza used to know before the Solomon empire crumbled, before she became the pitiful ward of the Hyde family.

Eliza didn't answer. She couldn't. Her throat had closed up somewhere between the appetizer course and the moment Anson Hyde walked into the ballroom with Claudine Chapman on his arm.

Anson looked more than happy. He looked victorious.

He stood in the center of the room, under the massive chandelier that cost more than Eliza's entire college tuition. His hand rested on the small of Claudine's back, his fingers splayed possessively against the white fabric of her dress. He leaned down, whispering something into her ear that made Claudine throw her head back and laugh.

The sound was sharp. It cut through the heavy orchestral music and lodged itself directly behind Eliza's ribs.

It was the same laugh Claudine used when she made fun of Eliza's second-hand shoes.

"Excuse me," a waiter muttered, bumping into Eliza's shoulder with a heavy tray.

Champagne sloshed over the rim of her glass, soaking into the bodice of her grey dress. It was cold and sticky.

The waiter didn't apologize. He glanced at her, recognized her as the charity case, and curled his lip in a sneer before moving on to serve the guests who actually mattered.

Eliza's stomach cramped. The humiliation was a physical weight, pressing down on her shoulders until her knees felt weak. She needed air. She needed to not be here, watching the boy who promised to protect her announce his engagement to the girl who tormented her.

She turned and walked toward the library, keeping her head down.

The library was dark, smelling of old paper and lemon polish. It was the only room in the Hyde estate where Eliza had ever felt safe. She closed the heavy oak door behind her and leaned her forehead against the wood, gasping for air. Her lungs burned.

The door handle turned under her grip.

Eliza jumped back, wiping frantically at her eyes. She expected Anson. She expected him to come in here and tell her to stop making a scene, to smile for the cameras, to be grateful for the roof over her head.

But the figure that filled the doorway wasn't Anson.

It was a wall of a man in a black tuxedo that seemed to absorb the dim light of the room. He was taller than Anson, broader, with a stillness about him that made the air in the library drop ten degrees.

Dallas Koch.

Eliza's breath hitched. Why was he here? The CEO of Koch Industries, the most powerful man in the city, didn't hide in libraries. He didn't even look at people like Eliza.

He stood there, his hand still on the brass knob, his dark eyes scanning her face. He took in the champagne stain on her dress, the red blotches on her cheeks, the way her hands were shaking so hard the crystal flute was rattling.

For a second, the stoic mask he wore-the one that made him look like a statue carved from granite-cracked. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

He stepped inside and closed the door, sealing out the noise of the party.

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. It was white silk, folded into a perfect square. He held it out to her without a word.

Eliza stared at it. "I... I'm fine."

"You are not fine," Dallas said. His voice was a low rumble, vibrating in the quiet room. "Take it."

Eliza reached out. Her fingers brushed against his palm as she took the silk. A jolt of static electricity snapped between them, sharp and surprising. She flinched, but he didn't move.

The handkerchief smelled of sandalwood and something clean, like rain on pavement. It smelled expensive. It smelled like stability.

From the hallway, Anson's voice drifted through the thick wood of the door. He was making a toast.

"...to my beautiful fiancée, Claudine..."

The words were like a physical blow to the back of Eliza's knees. Her legs gave out.

She didn't hit the floor.

Dallas moved with a speed that shouldn't have been possible for a man of his size. One moment he was standing three feet away, and the next, his arm was around her waist, catching her.

His grip was firm. Solid. He held her up effortlessly, his arm like a steel bar against her spine.

Eliza looked up. Her vision was swimming with tears, blurring his features, but she could see the intensity in his eyes. He wasn't looking at her with pity. He was looking at her with a terrifying kind of focus.

"Take me away," she whispered.

The words fell out of her mouth before she could stop them. It was a desperate plea, born of heartbreak and the sudden, overwhelming instinct that this man was the only thing in the room that wasn't trying to crush her.

Dallas went still. His eyes darkened, shifting from brown to something nearly black. He looked down at her, assessing the weight of her request, calculating the cost.

"There is no turning back if we leave, Eliza," he warned. His voice was low, rough around theedges. "If you walk out that door with me, you do not come back to this house."

Eliza nodded frantically. The tears were spilling over now, hot tracks on her cold skin. "Please. Just get me out."

Dallas didn't hesitate. He shifted his grip, guiding her toward the servants' exit hidden behind a tapestry. He moved his body to shield her from the security cameras, blocking her from view with his broad shoulders.

The night air outside was biting. A sleek, matte black Maybach was idling at the curb, looking like a predator waiting in the shadows.

Dallas opened the heavy door and helped her in. The interior smelled of leather and isolation. He slammed the door shut, and the silence was absolute. The music, the laughter, Anson's voice-it was all gone.

Eliza slumped against the seat. There was a crystal decanter in the center console. She didn't think. She just poured amber liquid into a glass and drank it in one gulp.

It burned. It burned all the way down to her empty stomach, setting her blood on fire.

Dallas got into the driver's seat. He didn't look at her. He gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice slurring slightly as the alcohol hit her system with the force of a truck.

"My place," Dallas said.

The car moved. The city lights blurred into streaks of neon. Eliza felt dizzy, unmoored. The alcohol was mixing with the adrenaline and the grief, creating a toxic cocktail in her brain.

She looked at Dallas's profile. He was Azalea's dad. He was old money. He was power.

"I need a shield," she mumbled, the words tumbling out. "I need a wall he can't climb."

Dallas glanced at her in the rearview mirror. His expression was unreadable.

They arrived at a building that pierced the skyline. The elevator ride was a blur of motion sickness. When the doors opened into the penthouse, Eliza stumbled.

Dallas was there again, steadying her. His hands on her arms felt hot through the thin fabric of her dress.

She looked up at him. In the harsh lighting of the foyer, he didn't look like a savior. He looked dangerous.

"Marry me," she blurted out.

The silence that followed was deafening.

It was the alcohol talking. It was the survival instinct of a wounded animal trying to find the biggest predator in the forest to hide behind.

Dallas froze. The air in the penthouse turned electric, charged with a tension that made the hair on Eliza's arms stand up.

He didn't laugh. He didn't tell her she was drunk.

He walked to a wall safe hidden behind a painting. He punched in a code, the beeps loud in the quiet room. He pulled out a document and a heavy fountain pen.

He walked back to her and placed the paper on the marble console table.

"Sign," he commanded. His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of a gavel striking a sounding block.

Eliza blinked, trying to focus on the paper. The words swam. She saw "Marriage" and "Agreement."

She didn't care about the details. She just wanted Anson to know she was gone. She wanted to burn the bridge so thoroughly she could never cross it again.

She grabbed the pen. Her signature was messy, a jagged scrawl across the bottom line.

"Done," she whispered.

The pen slipped from her fingers and clattered onto the marble. The room tilted sideways.

The last thing she felt was Dallas catching her again, lifting her into his arms as the blackness swallowed her whole.