Chapter 2

Cross Dynamics occupied the top floors of a black glass tower in Midtown that looked like it had been designed to make the skyline flinch. I'd passed it every day on my bus route to St. Luke's. Never imagined I'd be standing inside its lobby, wearing yesterday's scrubs under a borrowed coat, about to propose marriage to the most dangerous man in the city.

The receptionist — flawless, glacial, hired for competence and intimidation in equal measure — looked me over with surgical precision.

"You're the ten o'clock?"

"Aria Bennett."

Something flickered behind her eyes. "Fifty-second floor. He doesn't like waiting."

The elevator opened into a space that was more mausoleum than office — dark wood, brushed steel, floor-to-ceiling windows framing Manhattan like a kill. Everything precise. Everything controlled. Everything screaming that its owner tolerated no disorder.

He stood at the window, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and lethal.

"Buy them out. I don't care about the cost. I care that it's done by Friday."

He hung up without goodbye. Turned.

No camera had prepared me. Ethan Cross wasn't handsome the way Nathan was handsome — polished charm, practiced smiles, safe. He was handsome the way a blade is beautiful. Dark hair, jaw cut sharp enough to wound, and eyes so black they swallowed light. He occupied space the way a storm occupies the sky — completely, without apology.

Those eyes landed on me. Stayed.

"You're shorter than I expected," he said.

"You're ruder than I expected." The words left my mouth before my brain intervened. "And I expected extremely rude."

Something shifted in his expression. Not a smile — nothing that generous. Interest. A predator encountering something unexpected.

"Sit."

"I'll stand."

"It wasn't a request."

I sat. Not because he commanded it, but because my legs were shaking and I refused to let him see.

He opened a file. My file. Entire life compressed to paper — nursing degree, work history, marriage certificate, divorce filing, bank balance.

"Registered nurse. Twelve-hour shifts at St. Luke's. Current bank balance: three hundred and eighteen dollars." He looked up. "Marcus Webb's daughter, and you have three hundred dollars."

"Three hundred and eighteen. Precision matters."

That flicker again. He closed the file.

"Marcus saved my life when I was nineteen. Literally. A kid from nothing with nothing — he funded my education, backed my first company, stood behind me when every bank in this city shut the door." His jaw tightened. "He asked one thing in return. That I protect you."

"I don't need protecting."

"Everyone does, Ms. Bennett. Most are simply too proud to admit it." He leaned forward. "The marriage is strategic. Separate lives, separate bedrooms. No complications."

No complications. My hand almost drifted to my stomach. Almost.

"The wedding will be in two weeks. You'll move into my residence this weekend. Public appearances as required. Nothing more."

He stood — meeting over.

"One more thing." His voice caught me at the door. "Whatever you're hiding — and you are hiding something — I will find out. I always do."

I held his stare without flinching. "Then we'll both need to be careful."

The elevator doors closed and I collapsed against the wall, hand pressed flat against my abdomen.

Two weeks to marry a man who read lies like headlines.

And somewhere across the city, Nathan Cole had no idea that the woman he'd thrown away was about to become untouchable.