Falon opened the black shopping bag on the guest bed.
Inside was a black Tom Ford haute couture skirt suit. It was tailored to perfection. Beneath it lay a matching set of black La Perla lingerie. At the bottom of the bag, nestled in tissue paper, were a pair of sharp, black stiletto heels.
She picked up the bra and checked the tag.
The size was exact. Down to the millimeter.
A flush of deep humiliation burned her cheeks. The accuracy proved how meticulously Bell Farrell had mapped her body with his hands last night.
She stripped off the oversized shirt and put on the lingerie. The silk and lace hugged her skin tightly. She stepped into the skirt and buttoned the jacket. The fabric was incredibly restrictive. It forced her to stand perfectly straight. It felt like a beautiful, expensive cage. It carried his scent.
Falon looked at herself in the full-length mirror.
The terrified, heartbroken girl from the warehouse was gone. The woman staring back at her looked cold, sharp, and dangerous.
She pulled her dark hair back into a tight, sleek bun. She applied a bold red lipstick she found in her clutch. She armed herself.
Falon opened the door and walked back into the living room.
Bell was sitting on the sofa. He was scrolling through stock data on an iPad.
He heard the click of her new heels on the floor. He looked up.
His eyes swept over her. The suit clung to her curves exactly as he had envisioned. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His gaze darkened.
Falon walked right up to him. She looked down at him with icy disdain.
"Last night was a mistake," Falon said. Her voice was steady. "I am not signing an NDA. I do not care enough to talk about you."
Bell set the iPad down. He stood up. He towered over her, casting a long shadow.
He let out a short, mocking laugh. "I never ask women to sign garbage paper."
He reached out. He adjusted the lapel of her jacket. His knuckles brushed against her collarbone. The touch was possessive.
"The game is just starting, Falon," he whispered.
Falon slapped his hand away.
She turned on her heel and walked to the front door. She pulled it open and walked out. The heavy door clicked shut behind her.
Bell walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. He stood with his hands in his pockets. He watched the street below until he saw her small figure get into a yellow taxi.
He pulled out his phone and dialed his assistant.
Miles away, in the VIP wing of a private Manhattan hospital, the air smelled of sterile alcohol and expensive white roses.
Abby Gould lay in the hospital bed. She wore a silk nightgown. Her face was powdered to look pale and sickly.
The door opened. Jerod Mercer walked in. He carried a bouquet of white roses. He looked exhausted. His eyes were slightly bloodshot.
Abby's eyes immediately filled with tears. She reached out her hand. The IV tube taped to her wrist pulled taut.
"Jerod," she whimpered. "You came to see me last night, but then you just disappeared. You left me all alone to deal with the merger fallout."
Jerod sat on the edge of the bed. He took her hand.
For a split second, the sound of Falon's desperate, screaming voice from the warehouse echoed in his head. A sharp prick of annoyance hit his chest.
He pushed the thought away.
"I am here now, Abby," Jerod said softly. "When the merger is done, I will take you to Paris."
Dr. George Chandler walked into the room. He held a tablet. George was on Abby's secret payroll.
"Mr. Mercer," George said, adjusting his glasses. "Miss Gould's heart palpitations are severe. She needs absolute peace and quiet."
Abby leaned forward and rested her head against Jerod's chest.
"I am such a burden to you," Abby whispered weakly.
Jerod stroked her hair. He gently pushed her back against the pillows. He checked his Patek Philippe watch.
"I have a board meeting," Jerod said, standing up.
Abby bit her lip. She looked up at him through her eyelashes.
"Is Falon still throwing a tantrum about the party?" Abby asked innocently.
Jerod's jaw tightened. The mention of Falon's name ignited his anger.
"She is just trying to get attention," Jerod sneered. "She will come crawling back."
He walked out of the room.
As soon as the door closed, Jerod pulled out his phone. He dialed Falon's number.
The number you have reached is turned off.
Jerod's grip on the phone tightened until his knuckles turned white. She was defying him.
He dialed his executive assistant, Leo.
"Cancel the custom bridal gown arriving from Paris today," Jerod barked into the phone. "And intercept the sapphire necklace Falon bid on at Sotheby's. Buy it under my name."
He hung up. He would starve her out.
Back in the hospital room, Abby's fragile expression vanished the second Jerod was gone.
Her eyes turned hard and calculating.
She reached under her pillow and pulled out a burner phone. She dialed a number.
"Did Dwayne finish the job?" Abby asked coldly.
"Dwayne is MIA," the voice on the other end grunted. "But there are no police reports."
Abby smiled. A wicked, satisfied smirk.
She hung up the burner phone. She opened the drawer next to her bed and pulled out a piece of paper.
It was a forged pregnancy test result. Positive.
She traced the word with her fingernail. Jerod was hers.
Meanwhile, Falon sat in the back of the taxi. She stared out the window at the passing skyscrapers. Her hands rested on her lap, curled into tight fists. The fire in her eyes was not from tears. It was the fire of a woman preparing for war.
