Chapter 4

The clinic's underground garage faded into the background as the Maybach sped south. Eliza didn't fight this time. She sat quietly in the back seat, her hands folded in her lap, her mind racing a million miles a minute while she pretended to be the same blind victim she had been an hour ago.

The car pulled into the underground garage of a sleek, glass tower in Tribeca. The penthouse.

The elevator doors opened directly into the living room. Clifford grabbed her arm and shoved her forward. Eliza stumbled, catching herself on the arm of a massive, L-shaped Italian leather sofa before falling onto the cushions.

She curled her legs beneath her, keeping her head down, her hair falling forward to hide her face. But behind the curtain of hair, her eyes were wide open. She was frantically, greedily cataloging every detail of the space. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. The cold, minimalist furniture. The lack of any personal items. It was a cage for a king, not a home.

Marcus, the bodyguard, walked in behind them. He handed a thick manila folder and a tablet to Clifford. "The background check and the footage, sir."

Clifford walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights glittering at his back. He pulled a cigar from his pocket, lit it with a gold lighter, and tapped the screen of the tablet.

Eliza watched him through her lashes. She could see the video playing on the screen-the hallway of the hotel where they had met. She saw herself, clearly drugged out of her mind, stumbling into the wrong room. She saw Clifford walking in behind her.

It proved she hadn't set him up. She was just a victim of circumstance.

Clifford let out a harsh, cynical breath. He tossed the tablet onto the glass coffee table. It landed with a sharp, expensive clatter. Even with the proof of her innocence right in front of him, the disgust on his face didn't fade. He still looked at her like she was trash stuck to his shoe.

A man in a dark suit stepped forward. He was one of the family lawyers, carrying a thick stack of papers. He dropped the document onto the table in front of Eliza with a heavy thud.

"Miss Christian," the lawyer droned, his voice as cold as the room. "This is the prenuptial agreement. You waive all rights to alimony, property, and the Gray surname. You are retained solely as a gestational carrier. Upon birth, you surrender the child and vacate the premises."

Eliza reached out, her hand trembling slightly. She pretended to feel the table for the pen, her fingers brushing over the paper. She found the pen, but she didn't sign yet. She just held it, her knuckles white.

Clifford's shadow fell over her. He had walked up silently, the scent of cigar smoke and cedar washing over her. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "This marriage is a leash. Once the baby is born, I will cut that leash and throw you out. Do not think for a second that you are anything more than a temporary inconvenience."

Eliza bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. She wanted to look up. She wanted to stare directly into those cold, arrogant eyes and tell him exactly where he could shove his leash. But she wasn't ready. She was in the enemy's camp, surrounded by his people.

Instead, she forced her face into a mask of defeated submission. She bent over the paper and signed her name. Because she was "blind," the signature came out shaky and crooked, the tail of the 'n' dragging far past the line. It was perfect.

Clifford snatched the paper away from her. He gave her one last, dismissive look, then turned on his heel. "Marcus, lock the door."

The front door slammed shut, followed by the heavy, metallic thunk of a deadbolt engaging. The penthouse fell into absolute silence.

The second he was gone, Eliza's stomach revolted. The stress, the fear, the sheer willpower it took to sit there and take his abuse-it all crashed into her at once.

She bolted off the sofa. Using the mental map she had created from her quick glance around the room, she sprinted down the hallway. She pushed open the frosted glass door of the guest bathroom and fell against the marble vanity.

She gagged over the sink, her stomach heaving until nothing but bitter acid came up. When it was over, she reached out and turned the faucet. The cold water was a shock to her system. She splashed it over her face, washing away the sweat and the dried blood from her temple.

Slowly, Eliza raised her head.

She looked into the large, ornate mirror hanging above the sink.

The woman staring back at her was pale, her hair a mess, her eyes red-rimmed. But the eyes... they were no longer dead. They were no longer the blank, unfocused stare of a victim.

Her pupils contracted, focusing sharply on her own reflection. She could see the burst blood vessels in her sclera. She could see the faint, fading bruise on her jaw. She could see the cold, hard hatred burning in her own gaze.

She raised a hand, her fingertips touching the cool glass of the mirror, tracing the outline of her own face. It wasn't a hallucination. It was real. The reflection in the mirror was a stranger-pale, haunted, bruised. But beneath the fear, something else stirred. The same cold fury she'd felt as a child, listening to her family's home burn. They thought they could break her, just like the Pasks had. They were wrong. This time, she wasn't a helpless child. This time, she had a weapon inside her own head. A slow, chilling smile curved her lips. It wasn't a smile of happiness. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated intent.

She looked directly into her own eyes and mouthed the words without a sound.

"Game on, Mr. Gray."