Chapter 2

He responded instantly, taking control. One hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back, while the other slid around her waist, lifting her effortlessly. The kiss turned from her desperate attempt at silence into his brand of punishment. He backed her against the cold, smooth wall of the entryway, his body pinning hers.

Her baseball cap fell to the floor. A small gasp for air was swallowed by his mouth. His scent, his heat, was everywhere, and the rational part of her brain began to shut down, one circuit at a time.

With a soft clink, he set his whiskey glass down on the console table behind them. He scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing and strode down the long hallway toward the master bedroom.

Her head was thrown back over his shoulder. Her gaze drifted across the living room and snagged on something. On the low marble coffee table sat a large, glossy book. The cover showed a ballerina mid-leap. The title was in stark, elegant print: The Bolshoi Ballet: A History.

The image was a punch to the gut. Fragile, noble swan. The words from the gossip app screamed in her head.

Clemente kicked the bedroom door open and tossed her onto the massive bed. The silk duvet was cool against her skin as he followed her down, his body a heavy, welcome weight.

His lips trailed from her mouth down the line of her jaw, but her body was suddenly stiff. A traitorous chill ran through her.

He noticed immediately. He always did.

He lifted his head, his intense blue eyes searching hers. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she lied, her voice thin. She couldn't look at him. "Just... stressed. Midterms are killing me."

He seemed to accept it. His thumb brushed gently across her cheek, a rare, tender gesture that was completely at odds with the raw possession of moments before. "Relax, Kae. You're here now."

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to sink into the warmth of his body, into the practiced way his hands moved over her. She tried to use the physical sensations to burn away the image of the ballet book, to forget the name Hilda.

Two hours later, the room was quiet except for the sound of their breathing. Clemente was propped against the headboard, a cigarette between his fingers. The smoke curled in the dim light, obscuring the sharp lines of his face.

Kaelyn lay on her side, facing away from him, the silk sheet clutched in her hand. She traced the embroidered edge with her finger, her mind anything but calm.

A vibration buzzed against the marble of the nightstand. Clemente's personal phone. The screen lit up, showing a call from a number with no contact name saved.

He glanced at it. A flicker of something-annoyance? -crossed his face before his expression went smooth again. He reached over, picked up the phone, and flipped it screen-down on the nightstand. The movement was too quick, too deliberate.

It was a defensive gesture, and it set off every alarm bell in Kaelyn's head. The cloud of suspicion she'd been trying to ignore began to swell, dark and heavy.

She tried to sound casual. "Who was that?"

He took a slow drag from his cigarette. "Family trust lawyer," he said, his voice flat. "It can wait."

He was lying. She knew he was. His family's lawyers used a dedicated, encrypted line that showed up with a specific corporate ID. Not a random, unsaved number.

She didn't call him on it. The knowledge sat like a stone in her stomach.

Silently, she slipped out of bed, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin. She walked into the master bathroom and locked the door behind her.

She turned on the faucet, the rush of water a welcome noise to drown out the silence. Gripping the edges of the marble vanity, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, her lips were swollen, and there was a darkness in her eyes that hadn't been there this afternoon.

What are you doing? she asked the girl in the mirror. Why are you letting yourself be a secret for a man who won't even be honest about a phone call?

When she finally emerged, wrapped in one of his plush robes, he was already dressed. He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to her, talking on the phone. His voice was low, but the apartment was so quiet she could still catch fragments.

"...don't cry... I know it's hard... I'll handle it."

The tone. It was a tone she had never, ever heard him use. It was patient. Gentle. Soothing. It was everything he wasn't with her.

Her feet stopped moving. Her heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, tight and painful.

He heard her and immediately ended the call. When he turned around, the mask was back in place. His face was a cool, unreadable sculpture.

He walked toward her, pulling something from his wallet. It was a sleek, black credit card. An Amex Centurion. The infamous black card.

"Here," he said, holding it out to her. "For this weekend. Since I'll be busy."

She stared at the card. It wasn't a gift. It was a transaction. A payment for services rendered and a down payment for her silence. She was a line item in his budget. A secret he paid to keep.

She didn't take it.

She lifted her head, her eyes meeting his directly for the first time since he'd lied about the phone call. The question she'd been swallowing for months, the one she was terrified to ask, finally broke free.