A stranger asked me to fake sleep on his shoulder on my flight, completely unaware he was an $11B CEO whose security was tracking my ex.

The grand ballroom of the Drake Hotel glittered under twenty crystal chandeliers, a sea of black tuxedos, diamonds, and high-society political royalty. Flashbulbs erupted like miniature supernovas every time Noah took a step, blinding me as we moved through the receiving line.

I barely recognized myself in the floor-length emerald silk gown Noah's personal stylists had brought to the penthouse that morning. My hair was swept into an intricate updo, and around my neck rested a vintage Cartier diamond collar that felt as heavy as armor.

On my left ring finger sparkled a ten-carat cushion-cut diamond—a Whitman family heirloom that had been retrieved from a secure bank vault four hours earlier.

"Smile, Emily," Noah whispered close to my ear, his hand warm and possessive over mine where it rested in the crook of his arm. "The Chicago Tribune is ten feet to our left. Look like you're falling in love."

I forced a radiant smile, turning my face toward his. "If this diamond slips off, I'm going to have a stroke."

"It’s insured for four million dollars," he chuckled, leaning down to brush a lingering kiss against my cheek. The flashbulbs went completely wild. "If it falls, Marcus will catch it."

Behind us, Marcus stood twenty paces away, looking lethal in a custom tuxedo, his eyes scanning the crowd with predatory vigilance. Lily was safe back at the tower under the guard of four vetted female security specialists.

The room buzzed with feverish whispers. *Who is she? Where did he find her? Is she the oil heiress from Dallas?*

Noah played the part of the smitten billionaire with terrifying perfection. He held my waist, introduced me to senators and Supreme Court justices as his brilliant, reclusive partner, and shielded me from the more aggressive society columnists with effortless charm.

For two hours, I actually believed we had won. The sheer gravity of Noah's wealth seemed to have crushed Ryan’s pathetic little conspiracy beneath its heel.

Then I excused myself to the powder room.

The corridor outside the ladies' lounge was quiet, carpeted in deep crimson velvet, separated from the roar of the ballroom by a set of heavy mahogany doors. Two of Noah’s security guards stood at the entrance to the hallway.

I washed my hands, looking at my reflection in the gilded mirror. The hollow, haunted look in my eyes had finally begun to fade, replaced by a glimmer of hope I hadn't felt since I was twenty-two.

As I turned to leave the restroom, the lights flickered once. Twice. And died completely.

Emergency red backup lights cast the private hallway in blood-colored shadows. The door to the ladies' room flew open.

Before I could scream, a heavy, leather-gloved hand clamped over my mouth, slamming me backward against the marble vanity. The Cartier necklace dug painfully into my collarbone.

"Hello, sweetheart," a familiar, low, mocking voice drawled against my ear.

My blood turned to pure acid.

It wasn't Tommy.