The battered Range Rover pulled up to the curb in front of the towering glass facade of the Washington Group headquarters.
I looked down at my hand. The cuts from the broken glass were shallow but raw. Back at the apartment, before we left, I had rinsed them under cold tap water and wrapped a strip of torn bedsheet around my palm. The makeshift bandage was hidden inside the sleeve of the dark sweater Kayden had silently handed me—his, by the smell of cedar and smoke, but clean. It hung loose on my frame, but it was better than my ruined dress.
I flexed my fingers. A dull ache shot through the wound, but the bleeding had stopped. I tucked my injured hand into my pocket, keeping it out of sight.
The moment the tires stopped, the media descended. They swarmed the car like sharks smelling blood in the water.
I pushed my door open. A wall of blinding white camera flashes exploded in my face. The intense light seared my retinas, forcing me to squeeze my eyes shut.
Microphones were shoved aggressively toward my face. The reporters screamed questions, their voices blending into a deafening, malicious roar.
Kayden stepped out of the driver's side. He moved around the hood with long, predatory strides. Without a word, his large hand clamped firmly around my waist. He pulled me flush against his side, using his own body to shield me from the crushing weight of the crowd.
Even through the fabric of my dress, his palm felt branding-iron hot. My spine went rigid.
A female gossip reporter shoved her recorder inches from my mouth. "Christa! How does it feel to go from a Schroeder heiress to a convicted fraudster sleeping with a disgraced billionaire? Are you just desperate for cash?"
The words hit exactly where they were meant to. All the blood drained from my face. My stomach plummeted. My fingers curled inward, grabbing a fistful of Kayden's suit jacket, holding on like it was a lifeline. The motion pulled at the cut on my palm, sending a sharp sting up my arm, but I ignored it.
Kayden stopped walking. The temperature in the air seemed to drop ten degrees. He turned his head and pinned the reporter with a stare so lethally cold that the shouting around us instantly died down.
I took a sharp breath. The humiliation burned, but the anger burned hotter. I lifted my chin, forcing a mask of absolute, aristocratic arrogance onto my face.
I looked the reporter dead in the eye. "Your network's desperation is palpable. I can smell it from here. Perhaps you should focus on your plummeting ratings and the cheap, off-the-rack suit you're wearing instead of harassing people who are clearly out of your league. Learn some basic journalistic integrity before you bark at me like a stray dog."
The brutal, razor-sharp takedown left the reporter standing there with her mouth hanging open. The entire press pack fell into a stunned, dead silence.
Kayden looked down at me. A flash of dark amusement and genuine surprise sparked in his eyes. His grip on my waist tightened, and he used the silence to carve a path straight through the crowd and into the revolving glass doors of the lobby.
The blast of corporate air conditioning hit my flushed skin.
The lobby manager, a woman in a tight pencil skirt, saw us approaching. Her face immediately twisted into a sneer. She crossed her arms and stepped in front of the executive elevator bank.
"Mr. Washington, your access has been revoked," she said, her voice dripping with fake pity.
Two massive security guards stepped up behind her. Their hands rested heavily on the batons at their belts. They widened their stances, ready for a physical altercation.
I didn't step back. I stepped forward.
I reached out with my left hand—the uninjured one—and ripped the walkie-talkie straight off the shoulder strap of the lead guard. He was so shocked he didn't even react.
I pressed the transmit button. My voice was ice. "I have a recorded line to my attorney. Illegally detaining a citizen—even a former Schroeder—is a very, very expensive mistake. You have exactly three seconds to decide if your security firm can afford the kind of lawsuit that will bankrupt your entire operation by noon."
It was a bluff. I didn't have an attorney on retainer. But my voice carried the weight of someone who did.
The guard stared at me. The sheer, unyielding authority in my voice-the authority drilled into me from twenty-one years of living as a Schroeder-made him sweat. A bead of moisture rolled down his temple.
The manager swallowed hard. Her hands shook as she pulled her master keycard from her lanyard and swiped it against the scanner.
The elevator chimed a crisp, clear note. The stainless steel doors slid open.
We stepped inside. The doors closed, instantly cutting off the hostile stares of the lobby.
As the elevator shot upward, the sudden shift in gravity made my stomach swoop. Kayden dropped his hand from my waist. The sudden absence of his heat left a cold patch on my skin. I took a step to the side, re-establishing a safe physical distance.
Kayden leaned his broad shoulders against the mirrored wall. "Flawless acting back there. Your hand?"
I smoothed down the front of my dress, keeping my eyes fixed on the changing floor numbers.
"It's fine. Just a scratch." I flexed my fingers inside my pocket. The bandage was still dry. "It's called professional courtesy. You paid for a shield. Don't read into it."
The elevator chimed again. Floor 80.
We stepped out onto the plush carpet of the executive corridor. We walked to the massive double doors of Kayden's old corner office. The digital keypad lock was glowing red.
Through the thick mahogany, the unmistakable sound of a woman's breathy laughter and a man's low moan drifted into the hallway.
Kayden stopped dead. The muscles in his jaw feathered. His eyes turned into black, bottomless pits of rage. The air around him practically vibrated with violence.
I felt the shift in his energy. I stepped closer, closing the distance between us, and slid my arm through his.
I leaned in, my lips brushing against the collar of his shirt. "Ready for war, fiancé?" I whispered, my warm breath hitting the skin of his neck.
Kayden turned his head. His eyes locked onto mine for a fraction of a second. He pulled his arm free, grabbed my hand, intertwining our fingers tightly. The pressure was firm but careful, avoiding the tender part of my palm.
Without breaking stride, he lifted his heavy leather boot and kicked the mahogany door directly beside the lock.
