Elena's POV
My feet are bleeding.
I don't stop running.
The rain pounds against my skin like tiny fists, soaking through the silver dress that cost more than most people's rent. The fabric clings to me, heavy and ruined. Just like everything else Damian touches.
I clutch the black business card in one hand, the USB drive in the other. Both are slippery with rain and blood from where the glass cut my palm when I broke the window to escape. The pain doesn't matter. Nothing matters except getting away.
The streets of Manhattan are empty at two in the morning. Nobody sees me stumbling past darkened storefronts, leaving red footprints on the sidewalk. Nobody hears me gasping for air, my lungs burning.
"I know what you've been hiding, Elena."
Damian's voice echoes in my head, smooth and deadly like poison. His arm had been wrapped around my waist at the charity gala earlier tonight, tight enough to bruise. To everyone else, it looked like a loving boyfriend holding his girlfriend close. Only I felt his fingers digging into my ribs like claws.
"We'll deal with it when we get home," he'd whispered against my ear, his smile never wavering for the cameras.
I'd smiled too. I've gotten good at pretending.
But then I heard him on the phone in his study, after the gala. I wasn't supposed to be listening. I was supposed to be in our bedroom, waiting like a good girl.
"The Elena problem needs to be handled permanently," he'd said. "I don't care how you do it. Just make sure nobody asks questions."
My blood had turned to ice.
Three years. Three years of walking on eggshells, of hiding bruises under makeup, of becoming smaller and smaller until I almost disappeared completely. But I never stopped fighting. Not really. For eight months, I've been collecting evidence—recording conversations, photographing documents, stealing files from his computer.
I thought I had more time.
I was wrong.
Thunder crashes overhead, and I flinch. Every sound makes me think he's found me. That his men are around the next corner. That his hand will grab my hair and drag me back to that pristine apartment that's really just a beautiful cage.
My legs are shaking. I've been running for twenty minutes, maybe longer. Time feels broken, like the glass in my hand. The building I'm looking for should be close. It has to be close.
I found Adrian's business card in Damian's desk drawer six months ago, hidden in a folder labeled "DO NOT TOUCH." Just a black card with silver numbers—a phone number and an address. Nothing else. No name, no explanation.
But I remembered Adrian Cross.
Damian's older brother. The one who looked at me at our engagement party three years ago with something like sadness in his storm-gray eyes. The one who pulled Damian aside and spoke to him in low, angry tones I couldn't hear. The one Damian spent the entire drive home cursing about.
"He thinks he's better than me," Damian had snarled, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "He thinks he can judge me. After everything I know about him."
I'd stayed quiet. I was good at staying quiet then.
But I'd remembered Adrian. And two months ago, when I was searching for papers in Damian's office, I heard him on the phone, drunk and furious.
"You owe me, Adrian," he'd shouted. "You owe me for keeping my mouth shut about what you did. Don't you dare lecture me about my life."
I don't know what Adrian did. I don't know if he'll even remember me. But he's the only person Damian fears, and right now, fear is all I have to offer.
The building appears through the rain like a fortress—all glass and steel, reaching toward the dark sky. Security cameras track my approach. The doorman inside the lobby looks up, his eyes widening at the sight of me.
I must look insane. Barefoot, bleeding, soaked to the bone in an evening gown that's torn at the shoulder where I ripped it climbing out the bathroom window.
The doorman blocks the entrance as I reach for the door. "Ma'am, you can't—"
"Tell Adrian Cross that Elena Moretti is here." My voice shakes but doesn't break. I hold up the black card. "Tell him Damian sent me. Tell him I need the favor he owes."
The doorman stares at the card like it might bite him. His face goes pale.
"Please," I whisper. The adrenaline that's been keeping me moving is fading. My knees buckle, and I catch myself against the glass door, leaving a bloody handprint. "Please. He's coming for me."
The doorman grabs his phone, speaks rapidly into it. I can't hear the words over the rushing sound in my ears. The world tilts.
I'm so cold.
So tired.
I might have made a terrible mistake. Adrian Cross might be just as dangerous as his brother. Maybe more dangerous. Damian always said Adrian was ruthless, that he operated in shadows even the police feared.
But Damian also feared him. And right now, I'll take any enemy of Damian's as my friend.
The elevator across the lobby opens.
A man steps out, tall and dark-haired, wearing all black despite the late hour. His face is hard angles and controlled expression. But his eyes—those storm-gray eyes I remember—lock onto me with an intensity that steals my breath.
Adrian Cross looks at me like he's seeing a ghost.
Then his gaze drops to my torn dress, my bleeding feet, my shaking hands still clutching his card and the USB drive that contains enough evidence to destroy his brother.
His jaw tightens. Something dangerous flashes across his face.
He starts walking toward me, each step deliberate and predatory.
I don't know if I've just found salvation or stepped into an even worse nightmare.
The glass door opens. Adrian Cross stands in front of me, close enough that I can see the exact moment he makes his decision.
"How bad is it?" he asks. His voice is deep, controlled, nothing like Damian's smooth charm.
I open my mouth to answer.
Behind me, tires screech on wet pavement.
I turn and see the black Mercedes pulling up to the curb—Damian's car.