Chapter 5

The door closed with a sound like a vault sealing.

Ellsworth's hand moved from her elbow to her wrist, then to her shoulder, steering her past his desk to the seating area by the window. The Manhattan skyline stretched behind him, indifferent to the drama unfolding sixty-eight floors below its clouds.

"Sit," he said.

Claire sat. The leather sighed beneath her. She kept her back straight, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on a point between his shoulder blades.

Ellsworth moved to a cabinet she hadn't known existed, recessed into the wall paneling. He returned with a metal case, medical grade, the kind with a red cross on the lid. He sat beside her-too close, his knee brushing hers-and opened it.

The ice pack was small, disposable, activated by squeezing. He wrapped it in a hand towel from the case and reached for her face.

Claire flinched. She couldn't help it.

His hand paused. His eyes met hers. Something flickered there-irritation, maybe, or the ghost of that expression she'd seen when he first saw the mark on her cheek.

"This will hurt," he said. "Don't make a sound."

He pressed the pack against her cheekbone.

The cold was shocking. It bit through the towel, through her skin, into the damaged tissue underneath. Claire's eyes watered. Her vision blurred. She didn't make a sound.

Ellsworth held the pack in place with one hand. With the other, he retrieved his phone from his pocket. He dialed without looking at the screen.

"Gerald. I need tomorrow's headlines. All of them." His thumb traced the edge of the ice pack, adjusting the pressure. "Buy them. Every gossip rag in Manhattan. I want Ashton Stark's party photos. The ones from Ibiza. The ones with the white powder and the married men. Front page. Above the fold."

Claire's breath caught. She turned her head, dislodging the pack, staring at him with wide, horrified eyes.

"Don't," she said. Her voice cracked. "You don't need to-this isn't-it's over. The transaction is complete. I took the money. I'll sign whatever you want. But this-" She gestured between them, at the ice pack, at his hand still hovering near her face. "This isn't part of it."

Ellsworth's expression shifted. The temperature in the room dropped another ten degrees.

"Transaction," he repeated. He set the ice pack on the table between them. He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a folded document, heavy cream paper, legal weight. "You think one million dollars buys a night. You think it buys silence. You think it buys your freedom to walk away."

He dropped the document in her lap. It fell open, pages spreading like wings.

"Read it," he said. "Every word."

Claire's hands moved automatically, flipping pages. Her eyes tracked the dense legal text, the numbered clauses, the subsections and addenda. Her breath came faster. Her fingers began to shake.

Non-compete. Non-disclosure. Personal services agreement. The term was twenty-four months. The penalty for early termination was a liquidated damages clause for fifty million dollars, guaranteed and collateralized against all future earnings. The penalty for disclosure was even worse: any disclosure would be treated as corporate espionage against Mosley Holdings, and our legal department will pursue all available civil and criminal remedies to the fullest extent of the law.

"You can't," she whispered. "This isn't-this isn't legal. This is-"

"Consult the third page," he said. His voice was gentle now. Terrifying in its gentleness. "The jurisdiction clause. Any dispute will be settled in Delaware Chancery Court. My court, Claire. My judges."

She looked up at him. Her face was white, her eyes too large, the mark on her cheek livid against her pallor. She looked, he thought with a satisfaction that burned like acid in his chest, like a woman who had finally understood the nature of her predicament.

"You wanted to play," he said. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered against her temple, tracing the pulse that hammered there. "You wanted to walk into my world and take what you thought you deserved. But you didn't read the rules, little girl. You didn't understand who you were hunting."

He leaned closer. His breath warmed her ear, her throat, the place where his mark still hid beneath her makeup.

"You're mine now," he whispered. "Every hour. Every day. Until I say otherwise. And Claire?" His teeth closed on her earlobe, not hard enough to hurt, hard enough to promise. "I never say otherwise."