Chapter 8

The Park Avenue penthouse was a cold, silent battlefield. Two master suites at opposite ends of a sprawling floor plan. For days, Hope and Arley were ghosts to each other.

Then, one night, Arley came home drunk. The McCarthy deal was stalled, Kenia was driving him insane, and he was losing.

He stumbled through the apartment, but instead of going to his own room, he used his key to open hers.

Hope shot up in bed, instantly awake. The reek of whiskey filled the room. "Get out, Arley."

He lurched toward the bed, his eyes glazed over. "Time to do... my duty," he slurred, echoing his mother's words. "Make an heir."

He lunged for her.

She fought back, kicking and scratching, but he was heavier, his drunken strength overwhelming. He pinned her wrists, his weight crushing her. The silk of her nightgown ripped. His foul, whiskey-sour breath was hot on her neck. Panic, cold and sharp, seized her.

Just as he fumbled with the sheets, she saw her opening.

She went still, letting her body go limp for a single, deceptive second.

He grunted, thinking she'd given up.

In that instant of his relaxed guard, she brought her knee up, hard and fast, with every ounce of strength she had. It connected squarely with his groin.

The sound he made was not human. A high-pitched, strangled shriek of pure agony. He convulsed and rolled off the bed, collapsing onto the floor in a writhing, fetal position.

Hope scrambled out of bed, pulling the torn silk of her nightgown around her. Her heart was a jackhammer against her ribs, but her eyes were ice.

She stood over him.

"Arley Simmons," she said, her voice dangerously quiet. "Have you forgotten our prenuptial agreement?"

He could only groan in response.

"Article 17, section 3," she recited from memory. "In the event of physical coercion or assault by either party, the aggrieved party reserves the right to unilaterally terminate the engagement and is entitled to the maximum compensation package outlined within."

She took out her phone. She wasn't recording, but he didn't need to know that.

"I have a recording of this entire... encounter," she lied smoothly. "Imagine what happens to the Simmons Group stock price when my lawyer releases it. Along with photos of my bruises."

His eyes, wide with pain and shock, flew open. The alcohol was gone, replaced by pure terror.

"You wouldn't," he gasped.

"Try me," she said. "Now get out of my room. Or the next person to hear this recording will be your sister."

The mention of Portia was the final blow. He knew she would use it to ruin him completely.

He dragged himself off the floor, clutching his groin, and staggered out of the room, defeated.

Hope locked the door and leaned against it, her body finally starting to tremble with delayed shock. But the fear quickly hardened into resolve.

Never again.

Across the street, in a darkened apartment, Algernon lowered a high-powered telescope. The micro-drone was too risky for sustained surveillance in this dense urban canyon; a fixed, long-range observation post was far more discreet. He had seen it all. He couldn't hear the words, but he was an expert lip-reader. He had seen the attack, her terror, and her brilliant, vicious counter-attack.

Relief washed over him, immediately followed by a murderous rage.

That animal had dared to touch her.

He picked up his phone.

"Get me the head of Simmons Group's project team on the line," he told his assistant. "Tell him I've had a change of heart. The meeting is tomorrow. Ten a.m. My office. I want to meet Arley Simmons personally."