The chill that runs down my spine fails to cool my heated skin. Cold sweat coats my forehead as I stare at the half-drunk martini in a tall, sugar-edged glass. One would think the air would be thinner up on the fortieth floor, but it's just as thick as near the dry asphalt.

James Charles, The Guardian's eccentric investigative journalist, drinks rum and coke at the counter next to me. He's a rather handsome guy; green-blue eyes, light brown hair, high forehead, broad shoulders. His hands are too nice, though, moisturized and manicured with nimble, thin fingers. His suit is too expensive, too. Black Desmond Merrion, a special collection I've only seen worn once in Dubai. The sheik wearing it thought too highly of himself as well.

However, it is neither his looks nor his money, but his reputation that which catches attention. In the past two years, he's investigated everything, from corporate fraud to organized crime.

Conversation starters exchange in my mind, all dumb and vague. It sure is hot in here, isn't it? I hope the heat wavers soon. How's the drink? The waiters are impossibly slow, aren't they? Would you like to risk your life by reporting about the most dangerous crime family in NYC at the moment?

My dark hair glues to my neck, heavy and sweaty on my olive skin. The cherry-red material of my gown should be pure silk, but the way it sticks to my body makes me think there's polyester in the mix. I should've worn something loose-fitting; the tight dress squeezes my waist as if trying to choke me to death.

Terrace sliding doors are all open, allowing the thick, humid air inside, but it does not reach me. People mingle through the open area filled with red lounges and dark carpets, all dressed in the finest evening gowns, black suits and bow-ties.

I can barely hear the violins over the pounding in my ears. The high-pitched notes pierce through my skull, though, like a reminder that I'm not alone in here. I take a sip; the martini feels dry on my tongue.

The words slip from me almost by accident.

"God, how can it be so hot this high up?"

James Charles chuckles, his blue-green eyes sliding over me, "The people here suck all the air out of the room."

"Agreed." I salute.

He lifts his rum and coke in the air, "Join me on the balcony?"

"Why not?" I offer a smile. "I seem to be stood up anyway."

The journalist pulls away from the counter and a small frown etches between his eyebrows as he looks over me. I watch his eyes slide over the tight, off-shoulder dress and the slit spreading from my thighs. The frown deepens for a moment as if his brain is trying to make the connection. Forcing my face into neutrality feels harder than usual, especially with my heart still pounding in my earlobes. The frown disappears.

"Who in the world would stand you up?"

A sigh leaves my lips as I stand up, "An interviewer."

"That's a shitty interviewer." James offers a hand. "I'm James."

I take his soft hand in mine, "Emma."

Lie.

He gestures towards the balcony, "So, what are you interviewing for, Emma?"

I follow him through the crowd, "A job. Well, an internship."

Lie.

"At the 1211 Avenue?" James faces me, a small smirk grips his lips but I don't hold it against him. "Someone's aiming high."

The view of New York City spreads in front of us as if on a platter; thousands of lights flicker underneath, creating an illuminated veil of buildings, sky-scrapers and streetlights. Above the veil, an unnerving, moonless sky sharply contrasts the buzz and the clamour.

I shrug, "I'm a determined person."

Lie.

"That's a good thing in this profession." James leans against the thick-walled fence, I mimic him. "Which corp?"

"Fox." I answer quickly, hoping he won't ask much.

"Huh." James crosses his hands on his chest. "I assume you're a grad student."

I nod, "Journalism."

Lie.

He chuckles, "You know who I am, don't you?"

Fuck.

My mask wavers and I feel my lips parting on their own as my brain tries to scramble up another lie, but he's already talking to me, probably with the intention of sleeping with me, but it's a conversation. My lower lip quivers as I lean into the trepidation in my chest. The truth whirls on my tongue, desperate to slip out.

"I do." I cannot swallow, my tongue is too dry, "And I need your help."

James meets my gaze as confusion sparks in his blue-green eyes. His posture tenses and he grips the glass in his hand. I hold his eye-contact, needing him to read through my masks, needing him to understand me without a word.

"Alright." He nods slowly. "Why?"

I'm about to speak when a familiar, deep voice interrupts me.

"Good evening."

Fear surges through my spine in one strong wave. My head snaps away from James and towards the figure closing the sliding door. The man wears a black shirt and jeans, which rudely go against the rules of the white-tie event. The rolled-up sleeves allow a good look at his thick, veiny forearms. His dark hair tickles the collar of his shirt and when he hangs his head to light a cigarette, I glimpse the spider web tattoo on his neck.

The man turns around, the cigarette hanging off his thin lips, and stares straight at me with those protruding dark eyes. My back bumps against the fence; the stone drags against my dress, but I barely care about the fine fabric.

Riccardo Rocchetti has always been devastatingly handsome, almost as if his appearance served as a trick. A manipulation. A lure. He casts a sharp glance under his thick eyebrows, cutting through my petty lies, inhales the smoke and smiles.

"I see you've met Georgina." Riccardo stands way too close to James Charles and blows the smoke in his face.

The journalist's eyebrows furrow, as if he's trying to make sense of what's happening.

I close my eyes for a second and breathe in, wishing someone would whisk me away, drag me out of here, push me down the balcony until I crashed against the asphalt.

"Uh," James's voice turns a pitch higher, "What is going on here?"

My husband takes James's hand and twists it down. The journalist's lips curl in a quiet wince.

"Riccardo Rocchetti."

It's all it takes for James's eyes to widen with fear.

"And you are?"

I cut in immediately, "Frank Donovan. You're harassing the head of HR department."

James meets my gaze; understanding sparks inside.

Riccardo ashes the cigarette right over James's shoes, "The head of HR department is harassing my wife."

The journalist's wide eyes snap back and forth between me and Ric, "You- you're-"

"The first green-eyed monster you've met tonight." Riccardo blows out the smoke. "Would you like to meet another one?"

"I'm sorry." James shakes his head. "I didn't know. She said- I'm sorry."

A sharp, frustrated breath leaves my lips while Ric's curl into a snarl.

"Get out of here."

James glances at me one more time, his eyes full of disbelief, and leaves the balcony in a hurry, leaving behind only a gush of air. The moment we're alone Riccardo's expression softens and his lips widen into a grin.

"Ciao, amore."

"Seriously?" I grunt, pushing down the rumbling fear and focusing on the lie he cannot see through. "I need a job!"

"No, you don't." Riccardo throws the cigarette away and opens the sliding door. "You have enough money. Also, he obviously wanted to interview you in other matters, too."

He steps inside and walks through the lounge area. I know I shouldn't follow him, but curiosity gets the best of me. I need to know how he found me again.

"So?" I ask as we move through the mingling crowd. "We're separated!"

Riccardo's steps are too big for me and I half-run after him. "We're separated when I say we're separated."

Another chill crawls through me, impossible to ignore. Hopelessness, slowly creeping under my skin, turns into panic. Claustrophobia.

"That's stupid." I shake my head as we stop in front of the elevator. "There's plenty of women who would gladly be with you. Let this one go, Ric."

My husband closes his eyes for a second and inhales a sharp breath, "Say my name again, principessa."

"Call me that again and I'll snap your neck."

The elevator door opens, revealing mirror-covered walls inside.

"She barks, but does she bite?" Riccardo enters after me and leans against the wall.

I voice my frustration with a grunt, "What do you want? Why can't you just leave me alone?"

Riccardo laughs shortly, "Messing with you is way more fun. Plus, you've proven yourself rather useful to me. You have... talents."

"No, I don't!" My hands fall by my sides. "I don't have any talents or skills, which is why I'm here begging for a job and you're ruining this opportunity."

"You were hardly begging."

A salve of insults coats my tongue, but I push it all down. The elevator door closes and I find myself alone with him in a confined space. Only a few months ago, he'd push me against the wall and make me watch my expression in the mirror as he made love to me. My gaze jumps to my reflection. Heat gathers around my temples and a single sweat beam slides down the back of my neck. The traitorous spark in my green eyes mocks me.

Riccardo smirks, "You're blushing, amore."

"How did you find me?" I blurt out, diverting the conversation from my flushed face.

"The violinist is a friend of mine."

My eyebrows jump up, "My father doesn't know about this?"

"He does not find your departure alarming." Riccardo shrugs. "He doesn't consider you useful."

My head bumps against the mirror behind me and my eyelids flutter. Exhaustion overwhelms me suddenly. My body begs for sleep, peace, freedom.

"And you do?"

The question is futile. Explanations are useless. There is no escaping.

"I'm a feminist."

"You're a sociopath."

Riccardo laughs, the sound reverberates around me in the confined space. It's a game to him, everything is. Explaining I want out brought me nothing but trouble. If I want to be free of him, I need to lock him up. It's the only way, always has been. But every time I get close to someone, he's there. Waiting, interrupting, ruining my escape plan.

The elevator door pings. I try to exit. Riccardo grabs my upper arm and pulls me back inside.  He holds the elevator door with the other hand. My heart skips a beat as I find myself inches away from him. The playfulness disappears from his dark eyes.

"Let. Me. Go."

"Georgina." Riccardo's voice lowers. "If I see you talking to an investigative journalist one more time, I will kill him."

Air leaves my lungs as Riccardo's grip tightens around my forearm. His unrelenting stare makes me feel small and weak and helpless. He's everywhere, a fly on every fucking wall. All I want is out. Out. The pain in my throat unravels, but I blink away the tears.

"I want to go home." My voice sounds pleading, but I don't care.

I'd beg him on my knees to release me if I thought it would work.

The vacancy in his eyes swallows itself, allowing a glimpse of something else, something even darker. But the grip around my upper arm loosens. Almost stumbling in my heels, my heart pounding against my eardrums, I move away from him as quickly as possible and rush through the lobby, my shaky fingers jumping over the phone screen, trying to call a cab.

"You still have a target on your back, Georgina!" He yells after me.

My face distorts into a grimace as I look at him again, "And you're the one aiming at it."