The Fallen Heiress's Debt to the Billionaire

Felicity pressed her face against the cold glass of the limousine window. The condensation cooled her cheek, but it did nothing to stop the burning in her lungs. She tried to make herself small, to disappear into the black leather upholstery, but there was nowhere to go. The partition was up. The driver couldn't hear a thing. Or maybe he just didn't want to.

Barnett's hand clamped around her ankle. His grip was wet and hot. He yanked her back toward the center of the seat. Her heels scraped uselessly against the floor mats.

"You look beautiful when you struggle," he said. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through the seat. It made her stomach turn over.

"Please, Barnett." Felicity's voice was barely a whisper. She didn't recognize it. It sounded thin. Broken.

He laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. It was the sound of a man who owned something expensive and liked breaking it. He reached up and grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jawline. He squeezed until her teeth ground together.

"Don't forget who owns you, Felicity. Remember Article 12 of the Image Rehabilitation Agreement? You signed it. You agreed to do whatever is necessary to restore your market value."

Felicity stared at the dark partition. She focused on a small scratch in the leather. If she looked at him, she would vomit. If she fought him, he would make the call. Her father was sitting in a federal penitentiary in upstate New York. One call from Barnett to his connections on the inside, and her father wouldn't survive the night.

She bit her lip. She bit it until she tasted copper.

Barnett didn't like her silence. He wanted her to beg. He wanted the old Felicity, the one who threw champagne in people's faces, to cry for him. When she didn't make a sound, his face twisted.

He backhanded her.

The sound was loud in the enclosed space. A sharp crack. Felicity's head snapped to the side. Her ear rang. A dull throb started in her cheekbone and radiated down her neck.

She didn't cry. She slowly turned her head back to face him. Her eyes were dry. They felt like sand. She looked at him with nothing. No fear. No anger. Just nothing.

That look was a mistake.

Barnett growled. He reached for the strap of her gown. It was vintage silk, worth more than most people's cars. He tore it like it was paper. The sound of ripping fabric filled the car.

Felicity gasped. Her hands flew up to cover her chest. The air in the car suddenly felt freezing.

Barnett unbuckled his belt. He pulled off his tie and wrapped it around his knuckles.

"You think you're still the princess of the Upper East Side?" he hissed. "You're nothing. You're debt wrapped in pretty skin."

He lunged for her. Felicity kicked out. Her heel hit the door control panel. The window motor whirred. The glass slid down a significant gap, nearly halfway down.

The smell of gasoline and exhaust from the garage rushed in. It was the sweetest thing she had ever smelled.

Barnett cursed. He reached over her to hit the switch.

He slammed his fist against the partition glass and jabbed the intercom button. "Shut that damn window!" he yelled.

Felicity curled into a ball. She pulled her knees to her chest. Tears finally leaked out, hot and stinging. She squeezed her eyes shut. She tried to dissociate. Madame Rouge had taught her that in acting class. Be the object. Be the chair. Be the glass. Be the doll.

Barnett grabbed her hair. He yanked her head back.

Suddenly, the world turned white.

A beam of light, intense and blinding, flooded the back of the limousine. It cut through the tinted glass of the rear windshield and illuminated everything. The torn dress. The bruises forming on her arm. The tie wrapped around Barnett's hand.

Barnett froze. He threw his hand up to shield his eyes.

"What the hell?" he shouted.

Felicity blinked against the glare. Through the rear window, she saw the silhouette of a car. It was low. Sleek. A predator in the dark. The door of the sports car began to rise upward, like the wing of a dark angel.

Dewitt Knight tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of the Bugatti. The leather was smooth under his fingertips, but his patience was wearing thin. In his ear, Carter Vance was droning on about market volatility and Asian futures.

Dewitt killed the engine. The roar of the W16 engine died instantly, leaving only the hum of the garage ventilation system.

"Are you listening to me, Dewitt?" Carter asked.

Dewitt didn't answer. He was staring through his windshield.

Directly in front of his reserved spot, a stretch Lincoln was parked crookedly. It was taking up two spaces. But it wasn't the parking job that bothered him.

The car was shaking.

It was a rhythmic, violent motion. The shocks squeaked. A dull thudding sound echoed off the concrete walls of the VIP garage.

Dewitt frowned. This was a private garage. It was supposed to be sterile. Orderly.

He watched as the rear window of the Lincoln remained open by several inches. A hand shot out. It was pale. Slender. The fingers were clawing at the empty air.

On the ring finger, a flash of brilliant, unmistakable pink glinted in the harsh overhead lights.

Dewitt felt a familiar flicker of distaste. He'd seen rings like that before, ostentatious and desperate, usually on the fingers of women who traded dignity for a line of credit at Cartier.

He let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Carter, I'm hanging up," Dewitt said.

"Is everything alright?"

"Just some trash that needs to be taken out. Two animals are mating in my parking spot."

The hand in the window suddenly went rigid. Then it convulsed. It went limp, draping over the edge of the glass like a dead thing.

Dewitt felt a prick of irritation. It didn't look like passion. It looked like desperation.

A sound drifted through the crack in the window. It wasn't a moan. It was a sob. A high, broken sound that scraped against Dewitt's nerves.

He pulled the earpiece out and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He unbuckled his seatbelt. He hated this. He hated the messiness of other people's lives bleeding into his.

The car rocked again. The hand slipped from the window frame.

Dewitt slammed his hand onto the horn.

The sound was deafening. It bounced off the low ceiling and amplified.

The Lincoln stopped moving instantly.

Dewitt leaned back in his seat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. He lit a cigarette, the flame of the lighter illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He inhaled deeply and watched the Lincoln through the haze of smoke.

He waited.

It took ten seconds. The rear door of the Lincoln opened.

A man stumbled out. He was tucking his shirt into his trousers. His face was flushed red. His hair was a mess.

Dewitt recognized him immediately. Barnett Orr. The producer. A man who thought money could buy class.

Barnett squinted into the headlights of the Bugatti. When he saw the license plate, the color drained from his face. He knew whose spot he had taken.

Dewitt didn't look at Barnett. His eyes were fixed on the open door of the Lincoln. The interior was dark. The woman hadn't come out.

"Get out," Dewitt said to the windshield.

Barnett started walking toward the Bugatti, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. He was smiling, but it looked like a grimace.

Dewitt watched the dark opening of the car door. He waited for the gold digger to emerge. He wanted to see the woman who would sell herself in a parking garage for a producer credit.

Dewitt pushed his car door open. He stepped out onto the concrete. He didn't smooth his suit. He didn't adjust his cuffs. He just stood there, leaning against the side of his car, radiating a cold, lethal calm.

Barnett jogged over, fumbling with the top button of his shirt.

"Mr. Knight!" Barnett's voice was too loud, too eager. "I didn't realize you were in the city. We were just... having a private meeting."

Dewitt took a drag of his cigarette. He looked Barnett up and down.

"A meeting," Dewitt repeated. "Is that what they call it now?"

Inside the Lincoln, Felicity froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She knew that voice. It was deep, velvet wrapped around steel. Dewitt Knight.

She remembered him from the gala last year. Before the fall. Before the handcuffs and the headlines. He had looked at her then with polite indifference. Now, if he saw her like this, he would look at her with disgust.

She couldn't let him see her.

She looked around frantically. On the floor, tangled in her torn dress, was Barnett's suit jacket. He had taken it off earlier when the heat in the car rose.

It smelled like him. It made her skin crawl. But it was coverage.

She grabbed the jacket and pulled it around her shoulders. She buttoned it with shaking fingers. It was huge on her. It swallowed her frame. She pulled her knees up and huddled in the corner, praying he would just drive away.

"Who is in the car?" Dewitt asked.

Barnett shifted his weight. "Oh, just some talent. Nobody important. We should get out of your hair."

Dewitt dropped his cigarette. He crushed it under the heel of his Italian leather shoe.

"I asked who is in the car."

He didn't wait for an answer. He walked past Barnett.

Barnett tried to step in front of him. "Mr. Knight, really, it's not appropriate-"

Dewitt didn't even slow down. He just looked at Barnett. One look. It was enough to make the producer step back as if he'd been physically shoved.

Dewitt stopped at the open door of the Lincoln. The smell hit him first. Sweat. Expensive perfume. And something metallic. Blood.

He leaned down.

Felicity pressed herself against the far door. She pulled the jacket tighter, burying her face in the lapel.

Dewitt saw a small figure wrapped in a man's oversized jacket. She was trembling. Not a little shiver. She was vibrating with it.

"Look at me," Dewitt commanded.

Felicity shook her head.

Dewitt reached out. He didn't touch her skin. He grabbed the lapel of the jacket.

Barnett appeared at Dewitt's elbow. He reached in and grabbed Felicity's arm, yanking her forward.

"Don't be rude, darling. Say hello to Mr. Knight."

The sudden motion dislodged the jacket. It slipped off her left shoulder.

The strap of her dress was torn completely. The silk hung in tatters. On her upper arm, five distinct finger marks were blooming into purple bruises.

Dewitt saw the bruise. Then he saw her face.

Her lip was swollen. A small trickle of blood had dried at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes were wide, amber-colored, and filled with a terror so raw it felt like a physical blow. And on her hand, the one he had seen from his car, was the unmistakable fire of the Aguilar pink diamond. He had seen it in the Christie's catalog months ago. One of the few assets the family hadn't liquidated before the scandal broke.

"Felicity Aguilar," Dewitt said. His voice was flat.

Felicity yanked the jacket back up. She felt the heat rise in her cheeks, burning through the shame. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

Barnett laughed nervously. "You remember her. Hard to forget the Aguilar name, right? Even if it's mud now."

Dewitt stared at her. He saw the torn dress. The bruises. The man's jacket.

And in his mind, the pieces clicked together into the only picture that made sense to a man who saw everything as a transaction.

She was selling herself. And she had let things get rough to increase the price.