The private convoy of three black armored Cadillacs pulled up to the curb outside the Plaza Hotel just as the first wave of news vans began arriving.

Rain had begun to fall over Fifth Avenue, slicking the dark pavement with golden reflections from the streetlights.

Adrian held a massive black umbrella over my head as we stepped into the rear cabin of the lead vehicle. The interior was lined with dark Italian leather, quiet as a vault, smelling of rich espresso, cedarwood, and rain.

As the heavy doors slammed shut, isolating us from the chaos outside, I leaned my head back against the leather headrest and let out a long, slow breath.

My hands were finally shaking.

“Adrenaline,” Adrian noted softly from beside me.

He reached into the built-in bar, pulled out a crystal tumbler, poured two fingers of neat amber bourbon, and held it out to me.

I took the glass, my fingers brushing against his warm, calloused knuckles. A small shiver ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the chilly November air.

“I just destroyed a two-million-dollar gala in six minutes,” I murmured, taking a sip of the warm bourbon. It burned pleasantly down my throat. “My insurance company is going to have a stroke.”

“Your insurance company won't receive a single claim,” Adrian said calmly, leaning back and unbuttoning his wine-stained coat. “Vale Meridian legal filed a full breach-of-conduct injunction against the Holloway Foundation four minutes ago. By tomorrow morning, Grant Holloway will be facing three federal investigations for fraud.”

I looked at him sideways. “You had those files ready before he poured the wine?”

Adrian’s mouth curved into a dark, slow smile. “I don't enter a room with men like Grant Holloway without knowing every lie they’ve ever told their accountants. The wine simply moved my timeline up by an hour.”

He removed his jacket, revealing the wet crimson stain across his white dress shirt. Beneath the translucent silk of his shirt, the broad contours of his chest and shoulders were unmistakable—along with the dark, intricate ink of a geometric dragon tattoo extending from his wrist up under his collar.

He looked less like a corporate executive now, and more like the shadowy figure the tabloids loved to write about.

“You’re hurt,” I said, noticing a small red scrape near his collarbone where Grant’s glass had clipped him.

“It’s nothing,” Adrian said.

Without thinking, I set my glass down, pulled a clean handkerchief from my purse, and reached across the leather seat toward him.

Adrian froze as my fingers gently touched his neck, dabbing away the drop of red wine near his skin.

Up close, his gray eyes were intense, hypnotic, catching the faint passing amber lights from the rain-slicked streets outside. He didn't move away. He didn't breathe.

“You’re very bold for an architect, Claire,” he whispered, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that sent heat straight to my core.

“I told you,” I said, keeping my hands steady against his chest. “I don't like seeing beautiful things ruined by careless men.”

Adrian caught my hand in his. His grip was large, warm, and firm, his thumb softly tracing the curve of my wrist.

“You didn't just take back the ballroom tonight,” Adrian murmured, staring into my eyes with an intensity that made my breath catch. “You declared war on the entire establishment of this city. They won't forgive a woman like you for making them look small.”

“Let them try,” I replied, pulling my hand back gently, though every nerve in my body wanted to lean closer. “I have four employees, one freight elevator, and a grandmother who taught me how to hold my ground.”

Adrian let out a soft, appreciative hum, leaning back against the leather seat as the vehicle banked sharply across the Queensboro Bridge.

“We aren't going to Queens,” I noticed, looking out the tinted window as the Manhattan skyline retreated behind us.

“No,” Adrian said, adjusting his cuffs. “Your warehouse in Long Island City is currently surrounded by three news trucks and two of Grant Holloway’s private security detail.”

My stomach dropped. “What?”

“My men are clearing them out as we speak,” Adrian explained smoothly. “But until the paperwork clears tomorrow, you and your staff are staying at my private estate in Shelter Island.”

“I have work to do, Mr. Vale—”

“Call me Adrian,” he interrupted softly. “And your equipment is already being transported there in two of my climate-controlled freight trucks. Your four assistants are currently in a helicopter heading to the island estate as we speak.”

I stared at him, equal parts furious and awestruck.

“You planned my evacuation before I even gave the order to pull the lights?” I asked.

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