Chapter 3

The low, mechanical hum of the underground garage's ventilation fans vibrated through the floorboards of the Maybach.

Aimee shifted in her sleep. The fabric pressed against her cheek felt unusually scratchy, entirely different from her cheap cotton pillowcases at home. She let out a soft groan and slowly fluttered her eyes open.

As her vision cleared, the first thing she saw was a expanse of dark grey, bespoke wool. Then, a sharp, clean scent invaded her senses-cedarwood and expensive bergamot.

Aimee's nervous system violently snapped awake. Panic flooded her veins like ice water. She jerked her head up so fast that her forehead slammed directly into the solid, sharp angle of Cameron's jaw.

A deep, guttural grunt of pain ripped from Cameron's throat. His thick eyebrows crashed together. He brought a hand up to massage his jaw, his icy blue eyes glaring down at the woman who was currently scrambling away from him like a terrified rabbit.

"I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to-" Aimee gasped, pressing her back against the opposite car door.

But the apology died in her throat. Her eyes darted to the spot on his shoulder where her head had just been resting.

There, on the shoulder of his Savile Row custom suit jacket-a garment that easily cost more than her car-was a distinct, dark, wet patch.

She had drooled on him.

All the blood in Aimee's body rushed to her face, burning her cheeks with a heat so intense she thought she might spontaneously combust. Her stomach plummeted to her shoes. This was the absolute pinnacle of social death. She wanted to claw a hole through the floor of the Maybach and bury herself in the concrete.

Cameron followed her horrified gaze. He looked down at his shoulder.

When he registered the wet stain, his face turned the color of a thundercloud. His severe germaphobia flared, making his skin crawl. The air pressure inside the cabin seemed to drop to absolute zero.

He clenched his jaw so tightly the muscles ticked. He fought the overwhelming urge to rip the jacket off and hurl it out the window.

"Get out," Cameron commanded. The words were clipped, sharp as broken glass.

Aimee didn't need to be told twice. She fumbled blindly for the door handle, shoved it open, and practically tumbled out onto the freezing concrete floor of the garage. She stood there barefoot, holding her cheap heels, her hands shaking with mortification.

Cameron stepped out of the car with terrifying grace. His face was a mask of pure fury. He shrugged off the ruined suit jacket, not even sparing it a second glance, and tossed it directly into a nearby industrial trash can.

He didn't wait for her. He turned and strode toward the private elevator, his long legs eating up the distance.

Aimee stared at the trash can, her heart aching at the sheer waste of money. She quickly slipped her blistered feet back into her heels and jogged to catch up with him, slipping into the bright, mirrored elevator car just as the doors began to close.

The ride up to the penthouse was agonizingly silent.

The doors slid open to reveal a massive, minimalist foyer. Martha, the head housekeeper, was standing at attention. She stepped forward and respectfully took Cameron's leather briefcase.

Martha's eyes flicked between Cameron, who was now standing in just his crisp white dress shirt and vest, and Aimee, who looked like she had just survived a natural disaster. Martha was far too professional to ask questions.

"Would either of you care for a late-night snack?" Martha asked smoothly.

Aimee hadn't eaten a single bite of food at the Long Island estate. Right on cue, her empty stomach let out a loud, aggressive growl that echoed off the marble walls of the foyer.

Cameron stopped dead in his tracks. He slowly turned his head and looked at her as if she were an alien species.

Aimee instinctively wrapped her arms around her stomach, her toes curling inside her shoes. She wanted to die.

"Prepare two sandwiches," Cameron ordered Martha, his voice flat. He turned on his heel and marched straight toward his study, slamming the heavy oak door shut behind him.

Fifteen minutes later, Aimee was sitting on a high stool at the massive, cold marble island in the open-concept kitchen. She was ravenously devouring a gourmet ham and gruyere sandwich, practically swallowing the pieces whole.

The study door clicked open. Cameron walked out. He had changed into a pair of dark grey cashmere sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt. He walked to the refrigerator, poured himself a glass of iced water, and stood on the opposite side of the island.

He leaned against the counter, silently watching her chaotic eating habits.

Aimee felt the weight of his stare prickling her skin. She forced herself to slow her chewing, picking up a napkin to dab at her mouth, desperately trying to salvage whatever tiny shred of dignity she had left.

Suddenly, the screen of her phone, which was resting on the marble counter, lit up. It buzzed aggressively. Three iMessage notifications popped up in rapid succession.

Aimee glanced at the screen. The sender was "Dad."

Her forced calm shattered. She dropped the half-eaten sandwich onto her plate.

She opened the messages. Burt's texts were furious. He was demanding to meet the "bastard" who had convinced his daughter to elope out of nowhere. He was questioning if she was being scammed or held hostage.

Aimee pressed her fingertips hard against her forehead. A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. She knew her father's stubborn, blue-collar pride. If she didn't bring Cameron to Brooklyn, Burt would absolutely take the subway to Manhattan and kick down the doors of the Fox Group.

She took a deep, shaky breath. She lifted her head and looked across the marble island at Cameron.

"Mr. Fox," Aimee started, her voice trembling with a desperate, pleading edge. "Are you... are you free this weekend? Could you please come back to Brooklyn with me?"

Cameron paused with the water glass halfway to his mouth. He slowly lowered it. His icy eyes narrowed.

"Clause seven of our contract," Cameron stated, his voice a cold, unyielding wall. "I am obligated to perform for the Fox family. I am not obligated to entertain your relatives."

"My father's health is failing," Aimee pleaded, leaning forward over the counter, her hands clasped together. "He has a bad heart. He can't take the shock of thinking I'm in trouble. Please. Just one dinner. I'll deduct your hourly rate from the hundred thousand you gave me."

The mention of money flashed like a warning light in Cameron's eyes. His jaw tightened. He hated that she constantly reduced everything to a transaction, even though that was exactly what this was.

"Absolutely not," Cameron said coldly. He turned his back on her and walked toward the master bedroom corridor.

Aimee slumped against the high stool, the fight completely draining out of her.

Her phone buzzed one last time.

Burt: If I don't see this husband of yours by Saturday, I am calling the NYPD.

Aimee buried her face in her arms against the cold marble counter. Surrounded by tens of millions of dollars worth of luxury, she had never felt more suffocated and entirely alone.