Chapter 3

Apollo's penthouse overlooks Central Park. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city like a painting, all light and shadow and endless possibility. I'm sitting on his leather couch, an ice pack pressed to my cheek, while he paces near the window with his phone in his hand.

"We need to control this," he says. His voice is calm, but his jaw is tight. "Sebastian will spin it. Make you the villain."

"Let him."

He stops pacing. Looks at me. "Natasha—"

"I don't care what he says." The ice pack is numbing my skin, but underneath, the heat still pulses. "I'm done caring."