Chapter 2 2

The light was aggressive.

It sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows, hitting Eliza squarely in the face. She groaned, rolling over and reaching blindly for the glass of water that usually sat on her nightstand.

Her hand hit nothing but air.

She cracked one eye open. The ceiling was too high. The crown molding was too intricate. And the sheets... these weren't her scratchy, polyester sheets. This was cotton so smooth it felt like water against her skin.

Memory slammed into her like a physical blow.

The party. The champagne. Dallas.

Eliza sat up so fast her head spun. The room tilted, her brain throbbing against her skull in a rhythmic, painful beat. She looked down.

She was wearing an oversized men's silk pajama top that swallowed her frame. The fabric was impossibly soft against her skin, and it smelled faintly of sandalwood-his scent.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her chest. She grabbed the massive duvet and pulled it up to her chin, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her own dress, the cheap grey one, was nowhere to be seen.

She scanned the room. It was minimalist, masculine, and expensive. Dark wood, grey accents, no clutter.

On the bedside table, a stack of clothes was folded with military precision.

Sitting on top of the clothes was a piece of heavy cardstock and a black credit card.

Eliza reached out with a trembling hand. The card was heavy-metal, not plastic. A Centurion card. It was a blank, supplementary card, bearing only the platinum insignia of the bank.

She dropped it like it was hot coal.

She picked up the note. The handwriting was sharp, angular.

Hydrate. The code is your birthday. - D.

Flashbacks assaulted her. The car ride. The demand for a shield. The paper on the marble table.

Sign.

She gasped, pressing her hands to her mouth. She had proposed to her best friend's father. And he had said yes.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand. The screen lit up with a barrage of notifications.

52 missed calls from Anson Hyde.

30 texts from Anson Hyde.

12 voicemails.

Then, a single text from a number she didn't have saved, but recognized instantly.

Lawyers are filing. You are safe. Go to school.

Dallas.

Eliza stared at her left hand. There was a ring there. It was a simple platinum band, elegant and understated, but it felt heavier than a shackle.

She scrambled out of bed, her legs wobbly. She grabbed the clothes. A soft cashmere sweater, dark jeans, fresh underwear. She pulled them on. They fit.

They fit perfectly.

She paused, the sweater halfway over her head. How? How did he have clothes in her exact size ready? The thought sent a shiver down her spine, but she pushed it away. She couldn't deal with that right now.

She needed to leave.

She grabbed her bag and the black card-shoving it deep into her pocket-and fled the room.

The penthouse was silent. A housekeeper was dusting in the hallway, a stout woman with grey hair.

"Good morning, Mrs.-"

Eliza didn't let her finish. She bolted for the elevator, jabbing the button, half-expecting it not to work. To her surprise, a green light blinked and the doors slid shut. He had already given her access.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. It was Azalea.

Library. Now. Emergency.

Eliza's stomach dropped. Did she know?

She hailed a cab outside the building, her hands shaking so bad she could barely open the door. The ride to the university took twenty minutes, but it felt like twenty seconds.

She ran through the campus quad, ignoring the stares of students who probably saw the photos of her fleeing the party last night.

She found Azalea pacing behind the reference section in the library. Azalea looked manic, her blonde hair messy, phone clutched in her hand.

"Eliza!" Azalea grabbed her arm and dragged her further into the stacks. "My dad just transferred a crazy amount of money to my account."

Eliza froze. "What?"

"Like, 'buy a small island' money," Azalea whispered, eyes wide. "He said to take you shopping. Why is he spoiling you?"

Azalea looked suspicious. Her eyes narrowed, scanning Eliza's face.

Eliza's mouth went dry. "I... I helped him with a project. Some translation work."

It was a weak lie. Eliza was an art history major, not a translator. Azalea nodded slowly, though a flicker of doubt crossed her mind. Translation work? For her father, who had an entire in-house team of linguists? It felt thin, but Eliza looked so fragile, Azalea decided not to press. For now.

"Whatever. We have orders. Come outside."

Azalea marched her out of the library toward the student parking lot.

"He said your car is a death trap," Azalea said over her shoulder. "Which, to be fair, it is. The brakes sound like dying cats."

They reached the lot. A flatbed truck was idling there. On the bed of the truck sat a silver Aston Martin. It gleamed under the sun, looking alien among the dented Civics and Toyotas.

The driver hopped out and walked over to Azalea. He handed her a key fob.

Azalea tossed it to Eliza.

"He said this is the replacement."

Eliza caught the keys. The fob was heavy, leather and chrome. She looked at the car. It was worth more than the house she grew up in.

"I can't take this," Eliza whispered.

"You have to," Azalea said, crossing her arms. "You know how he is. If you send it back, he'll just send two."

Students were stopping. Phones were coming out. Whispers rippled through the air.

Is that Eliza Solomon? Who bought her that?

Eliza's phone buzzed again. Anson.

She declined the call, her thumb hitting the red button with aggressive force.

She walked to the car and pressed the unlock button. The mirrors unfolded. The lights flashed.

"Get in, Mrs. Koch," Azalea joked, nudging her ribs.

Eliza flinched. The title hit too close to home.

She slid into the driver's seat. The smell of new leather enveloped her. It smelled just like the Maybach. It smelled like Dallas.

She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. She had signed a contract with the devil, and now she was driving his chariot.