Chapter 3

POV: Charlotte

The smell of black coffee and clean leather woke me.

I opened my eyes. I was lying in a king-sized bed with charcoal sheets. Morning sun poured through massive windows, showing a clear view of the city skyline.

My soaked clothes were gone. I was wearing an oversized white dress shirt made of heavy cotton. It smelled faintly of sandalwood. Beneath the hem, white medical gauze was taped neatly over both my scraped knees.

The bedroom door clicked open.

Three men in dark suits walked in carrying thick leather briefcases. Behind them walked an older woman with silver hair pulled into a tight bun, holding a fresh glass of water.

And behind them all was Bruno William.

He wore a tailored dark navy suit, unbuttoned at the collar. He looked rested, sharp, and completely in control. In his right hand, he held a porcelain cup. In his left was a thick black folder.

"You're awake," Bruno said, his low voice filling the room. "Good. We have fifteen minutes before the markets open."

I pulled the heavy duvet up to my chest and sat straight against the headboard. "Who are these people, Bruno? And why am I wearing your shirt?"

"Mrs. Sarah cleaned your cuts and changed you while you were out," Bruno replied, nodding toward the older woman. "These three are my senior contract attorneys. Sit down, gentlemen."

The lawyers pulled three leather chairs up to the foot of the bed. The man in the middle clicked open his briefcase and placed two thick bound folders on the mattress in front of me.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice dry from sleep.

"Your new reality," Bruno said.

I pulled the top folder onto my lap.

The first page showed the embossed logo of William Capital. It was an executive employment agreement. It named me Chief Development Architect for the North Harbor Project. The salary figure on the third line had enough zeros to make my chest tighten. It gave me full authority over the engineering models, testing facilities, and contractor selection.

Then I flipped to the fourth page.

Section 4: Security and Residency Mandate.

4.1: The Employee must reside exclusively within the William Tower private residential wing for the duration of the build.

4.2: The Employee is strictly prohibited from leaving the property without an armed executive escort assigned directly by the Chairman.

4.3: All external phone calls, personal visits, and off-site meetings must receive twenty-four hours of prior written clearance from executive security.

My skin went hot.

I slammed the leather folder shut. The sound cracked like a gunshot in the quiet room.

"No," I said, shoving the papers off my lap. "Take this back."

The three lawyers stiffened. The lead attorney blinked in shock. People didn't shove contracts back at Bruno William.

Bruno didn't blink. He took a slow sip of his coffee, then tilted his head toward the hallway. "Wait outside."

The lawyers packed their bags in five seconds flat and hurried out the door. Mrs. Sarah set the glass of water on my nightstand and followed them, pulling the heavy double doors shut behind her.

Bruno set his coffee cup down. He walked around to my side of the bed, stopping two feet from the edge of the mattress.

"Sign the paperwork, Charlotte," he said evenly. "My litigators file your fraud injunction against Jackson in twenty minutes. We need your legal standing locked down."

"This isn't an employment offer. It’s a prison sentence."

I threw off the duvet and swung my legs over the edge. My bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor as I stood up. I refused to look up at him from a bed.

"I told you last night what I wanted," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "I want my name cleared. I want my design back. I did not escape one arrogant bastard just to let another one lock me in a cage."

Bruno took one slow step forward. His broad frame blocked the window light, casting a long shadow over me.

"You think this is about my ego?" he asked, his voice dropping into a harsh, dangerous rumble. "You think I enjoy babysitting an angry architect?"

"Then cross out Section Four!" I demanded, stepping directly into his personal space until the tips of my toes touched his polished shoes. "I need to inspect the concrete pours. I need to be on the docks when the dredging rigs test the mud. I need to look the suppliers in the eye. I build things with my hands, Bruno. I don't sit in a glass tower waiting for permission to breathe!"

Bruno’s hands came down on my shoulders.

His grip was sudden, hard, and hot through the thin cotton shirt. He pulled me forward until my chest pressed against his suit jacket.

"You will not go near those docks alone," he snarled, his gray eyes burning into mine. "You think Jackson is just a bitter ex who stole your work? You think this is just about hurt pride?"

"He's a thief and a fraud," I fired back, refusing to flinch from his grip. "I know exactly who he is!"

"You don't know a damn thing," Bruno growled. "Jackson didn't just borrow money from local banks to buy Elizabeth's family permits. He took forty-five million dollars from an offshore loan syndicate out of Macau. High-interest, unsecured blood money."

The air left my lungs. "What?"

"Jackson pledged the Harbor Tower as the primary asset," Bruno said, his fingers tightening on my shoulders. "If your fraud injunction goes through, the city halts the site permits. The project freezes. The moment those investors realize their forty-five million is stuck in legal limbo, they won't sue Jackson in civil court. They will butcher him. And they will butcher anyone standing in the way of their payout."

He leaned down until his lips were inches from my ear, his breath harsh against my neck.

"You walk out of this lobby alone, and you won't make it two blocks before an unmarked van pulls up beside you. I am not putting a leash on you, Charlotte. I am keeping you alive. And as long as you are under my roof, nobody touches what is mine."

My pulse hammered against my ribs. "I don't belong to you, Bruno."

His thumb slid up from my shoulder, brushing the sensitive skin of my throat, resting right over my racing pulse. His eyes darkened with pure, unfiltered possessiveness.

"Keep telling yourself that," he whispered roughly. "Sign the contract."

"Take out the restrictions on my phone calls, and give me sole sign-off on the foundation engineering," I countered, my voice shaking from how close he was, but my stubbornness holding firm. "I don't bend on my work. Take it or leave it."

Bruno stared at me for three long seconds. Then, a slow, lethal smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"Deal," he said. "Full engineering authority. But the armed detail stays on you twenty-four hours a day. You don't leave this building without two men behind you."

Before I could answer, a loud, sharp buzz cut through the room.

It came from the vanity table across the room.

My soaked canvas bag was sitting there. Inside the pocket was my private burner phone, the emergency number I kept off the firm's records.

I pulled away from Bruno's grip and crossed the floor. I reached into the bag and grabbed the cheap plastic phone.

There was an unread video text from an unknown number. Beneath it was a message:

We found the emergency receipt in your nightstand, Charlotte. Did you really think you could hide from me?

My thumb shook as I tapped the screen.

The video feed opened live.

It was my mother’s old architectural workshop on the south end of the city. The small brick studio where she had taught me perspective drawing before she died. Her original drafting table sat in the center of the frame, covered in her hand-drawn, watercolor elevation blueprints.

Two men wearing black ski masks were tipping yellow plastic containers over the tables, soaking the irreplaceable sketches in clear liquid.

The sound of pouring fuel hissed through the tiny speaker.

Then, Jackson walked into the center of the screen.

He wore a fresh coat. In his right hand, he held a silver lighter. He flicked the wheel. A bright yellow flame danced in the dim workshop.

Jackson looked straight into the camera lens, his mouth curving into a sick, hateful grin.

"You have ten minutes, Charlotte," Jackson’s voice came through the speaker, cold and dead. "Bruno’s office has the titanium drive you stole from my desk. Bring it to my car outside this studio in ten minutes, or every sketch your mother ever drew burns to the floor."