The pain in her thigh was sharp and real. Sloane dug her fingers into the muscle again, grounding herself. The sting was a confirmation. This wasn't a dream. She was twenty-two again. She was alive.
She walked quickly, her pace just shy of a run, heading north along Fifth Avenue. The iconic storefronts of Tiffany and Bergdorf's blurred past her. They were landmarks of a life she had just escaped.
Her mind was a whirlwind of strategy. The PTSD and amnesia angle was strong. It would buy her time. Time to get her family on her side, time to legally dissolve the engagement, and most importantly, time to protect her company, Innovatech, from Blaine's clutches. In her past life, he had used their impending marriage to gain control of the board and siphon funds. Not this time. This time, she would be the predator.
She was so consumed by her planning, so focused on the chess match unfolding in her head, that she didn't see the light change. She stepped off the curb at 57th Street directly into the path of oncoming traffic.
A horn blared, a sound that ripped through her concentration.
She looked up, her eyes wide with shock, as the grille of a massive black sedan filled her vision.
Tires shrieked against the pavement.
Time seemed to warp, stretching and slowing. She tried to jump back, but her body wouldn't respond. The impact wasn't a violent crash, but a solid, heavy shove. The car's fender connected with her knee, spinning her around and sending her sprawling onto the hard asphalt.
For a moment, she just lay there, the rough surface of the street scraping her palms, the smell of hot rubber in the air. A collective gasp rose from the pedestrians on the corner.
The back door of the Maybach opened with a quiet, expensive-sounding click.
A pair of immaculate black leather shoes stepped onto the pavement. They were followed by a man in a dark, perfectly tailored suit that probably cost more than her first car. He moved with an unnerving stillness, an aura of absolute power radiating from him like a physical force.
Julian Vanderbilt.
Even in her dazed state, she recognized him. The wolf of Wall Street. The cold, untouchable heir to the Vanderbilt fortune. His face, all sharp angles and aristocratic disdain, was a regular feature in the Financial Times.
His assistant, a harried-looking man in his thirties, rushed to her side first. "Miss? Are you alright? We need to get you to a hospital. We'll take care of everything."
Sloane's mind, momentarily stunned, kicked back into gear. A hospital. A legitimate medical reason for her disorientation. A perfect, unimpeachable witness who wasn't Blaine Sterling.
Opportunity didn't just knock. It hit her with a half-a-million-dollar car.
She had to play this perfectly.
Julian Vanderbilt stopped a few feet away, looking down at her not with concern, but with a cold, analytical assessment. His eyes, a startlingly pale grey, were narrowed.
"Are you trying to get yourself killed, or are you just another grifter looking for a payday?" he asked. His voice was a low baritone, laced with ice.
The accusation was exactly what she needed. A real victim would be hurt, offended. A calculating one would see an angle. She had to be the former.
She pushed herself up onto her elbows, wincing. She let tears well in her eyes, genuine ones this time, born from the shock and the lingering terror of the morning. She looked up at him, deliberately making her expression as lost and bewildered as possible.
"I... I don't..." she stammered, pressing a hand to her forehead. "Where am I?"
She let her gaze drift around at the gawking crowd, the tall buildings, the yellow cabs, as if she'd never seen them before. She was channeling every ounce of her past life's pain and betrayal into this one performance.
Julian's expression didn't change, but she saw a flicker of something in those grey eyes. He was re-evaluating. The woman crumpled on the pavement didn't look like a hardened scam artist. She looked like a broken doll.
"Get her in the car, Mark," he said to his assistant, his tone clipped. "Take her to Mount Sinai. I don't want a lawsuit over a fender-tap."
Mark gently helped her to her feet. Her knee throbbed, but she put very little weight on it, leaning heavily on the assistant. As she was guided toward the open door of the Maybach, she made a calculated move. She stumbled, reaching out and grabbing the sleeve of Julian's suit jacket to steady herself.
The fabric was impossibly fine. He stiffened at her touch.
"Please," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Don't call the police. I don't want any trouble. I just... I want to go home. But I don't remember where that is."
She needed a safe place. A sanctuary where Blaine couldn't reach her. This car, this cold and intimidating man, was the safest place in New York City right now.
She glanced at his wrist. A Patek Philippe watch. The license plate was custom. This man was not just rich; he was powerful enough to make problems disappear. He was the perfect shield.
Mark helped her into the cavernous back seat. The door closed, shutting out the city noise and encasing her in a cocoon of soft leather and silence. She sank into the seat, the smell of expensive cologne-sandalwood and something cold, like winter air-filling her senses.
She was taking a massive risk, placing her fate in the hands of a complete stranger. A dangerous one. But Blaine was a known threat. Julian Vanderbilt was just a potential one.
She leaned her head back, closing her eyes and focusing on steadying her breathing. In her mind, she was already running through the script for the doctors. Head injury. Confusion. Memory gaps.
The other door opened and Julian Vanderbilt slid into the seat beside her. The space, which had felt enormous, suddenly felt claustrophobic. His presence was overwhelming.
He held out a bottle of Fiji water.
"Drink," he commanded more than offered.
She took it, her fingers brushing his. His skin was cool. She took a small sip, the water a balm to her dry throat. As she drank, she felt his eyes on her, scrutinizing, dissecting.
"You don't have a purse," he stated. It wasn't a question. "No ID. No phone. Who are you?"
She lowered the bottle, meeting his gaze. She thought of her brother, Liam, of her parents. A genuine pang of sorrow and longing hit her. She used it.
She put all the confusion and fear she could muster into her expression and shook her head slowly.
"I don't know."
A beat of silence. Then, she saw it. Her purse. Her beautiful, custom-made Hermès Kelly bag. She must have dropped it when she fled City Hall. It had her phone, her wallet, everything.
"My bag," she said, a note of real panic in her voice. "I think I left it somewhere. My phone is in it." She looked at him, her eyes wide and pleading. "May I... may I please borrow your phone? There's one number I think I remember. My brother."
---
