Caroline’s hand violently jerked at the memory, but she forced her grip to tighten on the folding knife. The blade dug deeper, leaving a permanent, ugly dent in the pristine leather seat.
Graydon's gaze slowly dragged up from the knife to her face. There was no fear in his eyes. Only a cold, towering arrogance. He looked at her like she was a stain on his shoe.
Suddenly, he lunged forward. He shoved his solid, muscular chest directly against the dull back of the blade.
Caroline gasped. To avoid stabbing him in the ribs, she scrambled backward, her spine slamming hard against the locked car door.
Still clinging to that threat?” Graydon's voice was a low, venomous whisper, his eyes flashing with pure malice. “Try it. See which of us they believe.
His hand shot out like a striking snake. He grabbed her wrist, his thumb pressing brutally into the nerve cluster just below her palm.
A blinding spike of pain shot up Caroline's arm. Her fingers involuntarily sprang open. The knife dropped onto the floor mat with a dull thud. She bit back a scream.
Graydon didn't stop. He twisted her arm, forcing both of her hands behind her back. He pinned her wrists together with one massive hand, pressing her chest against the seat.
With his free hand, he reached into the torn pocket of her trench coat. He pulled out a crumpled, cheap business card.
He held it up to the dim reading light. His eyes scanned the text. A cruel, mocking smirk twisted his lips.
"'Caroline Bishop. Independent PR Consultant,'" he read aloud, his Wall Street accent making the words sound like a disease. "You're a cleaner. A bottom-feeding scavenger who wipes up the vomit of rich men for a paycheck."
The brutal accuracy of his words felt like a slap. Caroline's face flushed hot with shame, but her survival instinct flared.
"And it's men like you who keep my fridge full," she snarled, twisting her neck to glare at him.
Graydon's expression turned to absolute disgust. He looked at her like she was radioactive. He threw the business card directly at her face.
The sharp corner of the heavy cardstock struck her cheek, leaving a stinging, angry red mark. She clenched her jaw, refusing to let the tears stinging her eyes fall.
Graydon hit the intercom button. "Call the police. Tell them we have an extortionist who just destroyed private property."
Caroline's blood ran cold. If the police searched her, they would find the NDA in her bra. Her client's secret would leak. Her career-her only way to survive-would be dead.
She had to move. Now.
Caroline pulled her right knee back and drove it upward with all her strength, aiming straight for Graydon's groin.
Graydon's reflexes were terrifyingly fast. He twisted his hips, taking the blow on his upper thigh instead. But the sudden movement caused his grip on her wrists to loosen for a fraction of a second.
Caroline ripped her hands free. She lunged forward, grabbed his hand, and sank her teeth deep into the flesh between his thumb and index finger.
She bit down hard enough to taste copper.
Graydon let out a sharp hiss of pain. He yanked his hand back, releasing her completely.
Caroline threw herself at the door. Her fingers found the emergency mechanical release lever hidden under the armrest. She pulled it hard.
The heavy door popped open. Caroline tumbled out of the Maybach, hitting the concrete floor hard. Her knees scraped against the rough ground, tearing her skin.
She didn't stop to feel the pain. She snatched her canvas bag from where it had fallen on the seat and sprinted toward the concrete stairwell, running like a hunted animal.
Inside the car, Graydon stared at his hand. A deep, bleeding ring of teeth marks marred his skin. His eyes were black with fury.
The driver jumped out of the front seat, looking panicked. "Sir! Should I go after her?"
Graydon watched the stairwell door swing shut. "No," he said, his voice deadly quiet. "Find out everything about her. Every single detail."
Three blocks away, Caroline collapsed against the brick wall of a dark alley. Her chest heaved. She dragged oxygen into her burning lungs.
Her hands shook as she reached into her bra and pulled out the folded NDA—the paper perfectly intact, drawing a ragged sigh of relief—and her phone vibrated in her pocket, the caller ID flashing Rocco Vance, her VIP client; she answered, forcing her voice into a flat, professional monotone: "The document is secured. Wire the final payment to my account immediately," and she hung up before he could speak.
Caroline looked down at her torn stockings and her bloody, scraped knees. A crushing wave of exhaustion hit her. She walked over to a dirty puddle reflecting the streetlights. She stared at her ruined reflection and let out a bitter laugh, ripping the last broken button off her coat.
Her phone buzzed again. This time, it was Director Gable from the St. Mary's Orphanage.
"Caroline," Gable's voice was frantic. "You need to get here right now."
Caroline's stomach twisted into a tight knot. The orphanage was her only weak spot. She ran to the curb, flagged down a passing cab, and threw herself inside.
"Brooklyn. Step on it," she ordered.
