The morning sun sliced through the cheap plastic blinds, hitting Debora directly in the eyes. She gasped, waking up with a start, her hand immediately flying to her stomach.
She pushed the blankets off, her bare feet hitting the cold floor. She washed her face and pulled her hair back into a tight, neat ponytail. She put on her only clean professional outfit-a navy skirt suit that was two seasons out of date. However, using her meticulous skills, she had altered the seams so that the waistline and shoulders perfectly hugged her slender frame. Only the slight fraying of the cheap fabric betrayed its true age and her current poverty.
She walked out into the living room. The blanket on the sofa was folded with military precision. Jameson was already gone.
Debora took a deep breath, grabbed her purse, and walked out the door. The loud, chaotic energy of Brooklyn swallowed her as she descended into the subway, riding the train all the way to Manhattan.
An hour and a half later, Debora stood on the sidewalk of the Upper East Side. In front of her was a high-end bridal boutique, its large glass windows displaying gowns that cost more than she had made in a year.
Before prison, she had been a top student at Parsons. Even with a felony on her record, she hoped her skills with a needle could land her a job doing alterations in the back room.
She pushed the heavy glass door open. A silver bell chimed. The air inside was thick with the scent of expensive roses and vanilla.
The boutique manager, a woman with sharp features and a tight bun, looked over Debora's resume. When her eyes hit the parole status, her lips thinned into a hard line. She handed the paper back. "We don't hire criminals."
"Please," Debora said, her voice steady but desperate. "I'll take minimum wage. I'll stay in the back. Just give me a chance to show you my stitching."
Before the manager could reply, a loud, artificial laugh echoed from the front entrance. Several sales associates rushed forward, fawning over a couple walking through the door.
Debora glanced over her shoulder. Her blood turned to ice. Her lungs stopped working.
Walking in the center of the room, wearing a custom-tailored suit and gold-rimmed glasses, was Darrell Poole. The man who had been driving the car that night. The man she had gone to prison for.
Clinging to his arm was a stunning woman dripping in diamonds, her chin tilted up in pure arrogance. Paige Lennox.
Bile rose in Debora's throat. She immediately ducked her head, stepping behind a massive rack of tulle gowns to hide.
Her hands were shaking so badly that as she backed up, her elbow clipped a silver tray resting on a side table. A roll of exquisite, hand-beaded lace tumbled off the tray and hit the floor.
The lace rolled right into the center aisle. A sparkling Jimmy Choo stiletto stepped directly onto the delicate fabric.
Paige gasped dramatically, looking down at the lace under her heel with utter disgust. "God, the staff here is so clumsy!"
Darrell immediately wrapped his arm around Paige's waist, playing the perfect, protective fiancé. He followed Paige's annoyed glare toward the rack of dresses.
Debora was kneeling on the floor, her fingers reaching for the lace. She froze. Slowly, she lifted her head.
Debora's eyes locked with Darrell's.
The gentle, loving smile on Darrell's face shattered. His eyes widened in sheer panic, the color draining from his face.
Paige was still complaining to the manager. Darrell quickly leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Go to the VIP fitting room, babe. I'll handle this."
The second Paige disappeared behind the velvet curtains, the panic in Darrell's eyes morphed into pure, vicious malice.
He closed the distance between them in seconds. He grabbed Debora's upper arm, his fingers digging into her flesh like iron claws.
"Get off me," Debora hissed, trying to pull away.
Darrell ignored her. He dragged her roughly through a side door and shoved her into the dark, narrow alley behind the boutique.
He slammed her back against the rough brick wall. The impact knocked the breath out of her, a sharp pain shooting up her spine.
Darrell planted his hands on the bricks on either side of her head, trapping her. "What the hell are you doing here?" he snarled, his spit hitting her cheek. "Are you stalking me? Trying to ruin my life?"
Debora glared at him, her chest heaving as she fought through the pain in her back. "You don't own New York, Darrell."
Darrell let out a dark, mocking laugh. He reached out and slapped her cheek lightly-a degrading, dismissive gesture. "Did you forget the NDA you signed? You're a piece of trash with a felony record. You breathe a word of this to Paige, and I will have my lawyers bury you so deep you'll die in a cell."
Debora's hands curled into tight fists at her sides. Her fingernails bit into her palms until the skin broke. She stared at the man who had destroyed her life, a burning, violent rage igniting in her chest.
