The night was thick with shadows, a soft wind whispering through the streets of Willowbrook. Inside the most lavish presidential suite of the city’s grandest hotel, a nineteen-year-old girl lay sprawled across the plush bed, her wrists bound behind her back with rough rope. Her dark silk nightgown clung to her trembling frame, her long lashes fluttering as consciousness slowly returned. Then—her eyes snapped open. Panic surged through her veins. Just outside the suite, two voices murmured in hushed tones, their words dripping with false sweetness. "Mr. Whitmore, I assure you, she’s untouched. A bit headstrong, perhaps, but once she’s had a taste of pleasure, she’ll be as docile as a lamb." The man’s oily chuckle made her stomach twist. "Indeed," a woman chimed in. "And youth ensures fertility. You’ll have no trouble securing an heir." A deep, satisfied hum. "Good. If she meets my expectations, the Fairview project is yours." The girl’s breath hitched. They were selling her. Her own father and stepmother—Richard and Diana Donovan—were trading her like livestock to Lawrence Whitmore, a man old enough to be her grandfather. She had to escape. With a sharp inhale, she rolled off the bed, her bare feet hitting the carpet silently. The drug in her system made her limbs heavy, her vision swimming, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself toward the bathroom. Just as the door to the suite clicked open, she slipped inside, pressing herself against the wall. Footsteps. Then—silence. "Where is she?" Whitmore’s voice turned sharp. Richard stammered. "She—she was here! Diana, you tied her up, didn’t you?" Diana’s voice wavered. "Of course I did! I even—" The girl didn’t wait to hear more. She edged toward the door, her body burning with feverish heat. The drug was taking hold, her skin flushed, her breaths shallow. She had to find help. Stumbling into the hallway, she scanned the doors. One stood slightly ajar. Hope flared. With the last of her strength, she shoved through the door—just as Richard and Diana burst into the hall behind her. She slammed it shut, her back pressed against the wood, heart pounding. Safe. For now. Then—a chill ran down her spine. Slowly, she turned. A man stood before her, his bare torso glistening with droplets of water, a towel slung low on his hips. His dark hair was damp, his piercing gaze locked onto her with icy intensity. Her lips parted. Before she could speak, a knock rattled the door. Her pulse spiked. No. They couldn’t find her. Desperation clawed at her chest. Without thinking, she lunged forward, crashing her lips against his. A jolt of electricity shot through her. The man stiffened, his hands gripping her waist—not pushing her away, but holding her there. She pulled back, her voice a ragged whisper. "Please… save me." His eyes darkened. A smirk curled his lips. Then—he tossed her onto the bed. Morning. Sunlight spilled across the sheets, rousing Evelyn Sinclair from her exhausted slumber. Every muscle ached. She turned her head—and froze. Alexander Sterling slept beside her, his sculpted features relaxed, his chest rising and falling steadily. Her cheeks burned. She had begged him to save her. Not this. With a groan, she slipped from the bed, wincing as she moved. His clothes lay discarded on the sofa—a white dress shirt and tailored slacks. She dressed quickly, rolling the sleeves and cinching the waistband tight. His wallet sat on the nightstand. She hesitated—then snatched it. Inside, a stack of crisp bills. Perfect. She needed money to disappear. Tucking the cash into her pocket, she glanced at the ID. Alexander Sterling. So that was his name. A rustle from the bed made her freeze. She didn’t wait to see if he woke. She bolted. An hour later. Alexander sat up, his gaze sweeping the empty room. The sheets bore evidence of the night before. But the woman was gone. His jaw clenched. She had drugged him. Used him. And stolen from him. A slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. "Victor," he called, snatching his phone. Within minutes, his assistant, Nathan Pierce, stood before him, wide-eyed. "Find her." Nathan blinked. "Sir?" Alexander’s voice was steel. "A woman broke into my room last night. Drugged me. Stole from me." He paused. "And then vanished." Nathan’s mouth fell open. No one crossed Alexander Sterling. And lived to tell the tale. Surveillance footage revealed her identity within hours. Evelyn Sinclair. Nineteen. Prodigy. PhD by nineteen. And Richard Donovan’s discarded daughter. Alexander’s fingers drummed against the desk. "Where is she now?" Nathan swallowed. "We… haven’t found her yet." Alexander’s smile turned lethal. "Oh, we will." And when they did— She would regret ever running.