Although Rhys's extravagant motorcade had terrified the Williamsons and stunned all of Manhattan, he didn't take me to some ancient castle on Long Island. Instead, he parked in front of a red-brick industrial-style building in Tribeca.

This was one of New York's most expensive and private neighborhoods.

“We’re here,” Rhys said, turning off the engine. “A friend is ‘lending’ me this place. You know, I’m a kept man now, dependent on my wife, so I have to crash at a friend’s.”

I glanced at the building's security system—it was retinal scan-level security.

“Your friend is very generous,” I said, not calling his bluff.

The elevator went straight to the top floor. The moment the doors opened, I was stunned by the view.

This wasn't an apartment; it was a glass box floating above the city. Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, the glittering Manhattan skyline and the shimmering Hudson River stretched out before me.

“The guest room is on the left, master on the right,” Rhys said, loosening his tie and tossing his expensive suit jacket onto a ridiculously expensive leather sofa. “However, to deal with any private investigators that might show up, I suggest we share a room.”

I took a wary step back. “Is this your definition of ‘not interfering in my private life’?”

Rhys let out a low chuckle and walked toward me. He was so tall his shadow completely enveloped me. He leaned in, his breath a dangerous current against my ear.

“Relax, Mrs. Foster. As alluring as you are, I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of people. The bed is big enough to keep our distance, as long as you don't sleepwalk and roll over.”

That night, I didn't sleepwalk. But I did have insomnia.

Lying less than two feet away from this stranger, listening to his steady breathing, smelling the faint scent of cedar on him, I felt a strange sense of security for the first time in this cold city.

However, that peace lasted less than two days.

On the evening of the third day, as I was trying to figure out the complex Italian coffee machine in the kitchen, the intercom buzzed.

It was Alex. He had clearly hired a private detective to find me here.

When I went downstairs, Alex was leaning against his flashy red Ferrari, a cigar between his fingers, an infuriating look of superiority on his face.

“Aria, stop this nonsense,” he said, looking me up and down in my simple loungewear. “Where’s that waiter? Washing your underwear for you? Or is he making you some cheap pasta?”

I crossed my arms, looking at him coldly. “Alex, if you’re here to humiliate me, please get the hell out.”

“Humiliate you?” Alex scoffed. “Aria, don’t you get it? Without the Williamson Group backing you, you’re worthless. But I’m feeling sentimental.”

He lowered his voice, his tone dripping with condescension. “Leave that waiter. I can rent you an apartment on Park Avenue. Lily is my fiancée, of course, but I need a smart woman to handle… some special business for me behind the scenes. You know I always appreciated your body and your brain.”

In that moment, a wave of nausea washed over me.

“Special business?” I was trembling with rage. “You want me to be your mistress?”

“Don’t make it sound so ugly. How about ‘consultant with benefits’?” He reached out to touch my face.

Smack!

I slapped his hand away.

“You make me sick, Alex. Get out!”

Alex’s face changed, and he grabbed my wrist in anger. “You crazy bitch, don’t think you have backup just because you married some waiter! Do you have any idea what I could—”

“Let her go.”

A deep voice boomed through the empty street like thunder.

Rhys was standing there, holding a brown paper grocery bag, dressed in a simple white t-shirt and jeans. But the muscles in his arms were taut under the setting sun, and the sheer force of his presence seemed to make the air freeze.

He didn't rush over like a madman. He calmly handed the groceries to the doorman, then walked, step by step, toward Alex.

The absolute height difference made Alex instinctively let go of me and stumble backward.

Rhys wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me tightly against his chest in a possessive gesture. He looked down at the red marks on my wrist, and a bloodthirsty glint flashed in his eyes.

“Mr. Carter,” Rhys’s voice was soft, but he looked at Alex like he was an ant. “I’m giving you three seconds to get out of my sight. Otherwise, I wouldn't mind making a call to the SEC to chat about those suspicious offshore transfers your father’s company has been making lately.”

Alex froze, then burst out laughing as if he’d heard the world’s greatest joke.

“The SEC? Does a plate-carrier like you even know where the SEC building is? You want to investigate my finances? That’s hilarious!”

He glared at me and adjusted his tie. “Aria, you will regret this! You’ll be crying and begging me to pay your rent when this broke, bragging loser is through with you!”

With that, he jumped into his Ferrari and sped away, the engine roaring.

I watched the taillights disappear, my heart pounding. I looked at Rhys worriedly. “That was reckless. The Carter family is powerful, they have deep ties to all the vultures on Wall Street.”

Rhys looked down at me, the ice in his eyes melting instantly into a fond look. He gently caressed the red marks on my wrist, his voice incredibly soft.

“Wall Street?” he chuckled, kissing my forehead. “Baby, I am Wall Street.”

He took out his phone and sent a short text message with only two words:

“Short it.”

Half an hour later, a breaking news alert interrupted the financial news on TV:

[BREAKING] Carter Holdings targeted by massive short-selling from a mysterious source! Stock price plummets 40% in after-hours trading! Rumors of major financial fraud have prompted an SEC investigation!

I stared at the plunging stock chart on the screen, the spoon falling from my hand and clattering onto my plate.

Rhys poured me a glass of red wine, his expression as calm as a still lake. “Eat. It won't taste as good when it’s cold.”