The first time Naomi Carter realized Daniel Han had been lying to her, she was standing barefoot in his penthouse with rainwater dripping from her hair and a loaded handgun resting six feet away on a marble counter.

Marcus stood six-foot-two, his broad frame filling the doorway of the small security room. He wore his tactical vest open, his hand resting casually on the butt of the sidearm holstered at his hip. He didn't look angry; he looked weary, like a soldier who had played out this exact script too many times before.

Naomi didn't back away. She stood up slowly from the desk chair, keeping her spine straight, her arms folded across her chest to hide the slight tremor in her fingers.

“You put the photos on my car,” Naomi stated, her voice icy and direct.

Marcus looked at the monitor behind her, where the paused frame of his own face gleamed under the fluorescence of the surveillance light. He let out a long, heavy sigh that rattled in his chest.

“I follow orders, Ms. Carter,” Marcus said quietly.

“He paid you to stalk me?” Naomi challenged, taking a step forward despite the gun on his hip. “He paid you to terrify a woman who was just trying to pay her mother’s mortgage and get through her shift?”

“He didn't do it to hurt you,” Marcus countered, though there was no real conviction in his tone. “Mr. Han doesn't know how to keep people near him any other way. When he wants something—when he cares about something—he secures the perimeter. He creates a situation where he is the only safe place left in the world.”

Naomi let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “That’s not love, Marcus. That’s psychological imprisonment. That’s a trap.”

“I know,” Marcus replied flatly, stepping aside slightly to reveal the empty hallway behind him. “Why do you think seventeen other women ran?”

Naomi paused, her eyes narrowing as she studied the security chief’s weathered face. “You helped them leave.”

Marcus closed his eyes for a brief second, nodding slowly. “Woman number four was a schoolteacher from Bellevue. He put a GPS tracker in her shoe. Woman number nine was an architect from Vancouver; he bought her firm’s debt so she couldn't take a job in another city. Every single time Mr. Han feels a woman slipping away, he builds a bigger cage. And every single time, they realize the bars are made by him, and they bolt.”

Marcus looked directly into Naomi’s eyes, his expression dead serious.

“I keep a vehicle parked at the lower loading dock,” Marcus offered softly, pulling a key card from his pocket and setting it on the counter between them. “It’s unregistered. No GPS. I can have you in Portland by sunrise. I’ll clear the camera logs for the next twenty minutes. He won't know you left until morning.”

He held out the escape route to her on a silver platter. The same escape route seventeen terrified women had taken before her.

Naomi looked at the keycard. She thought of her quiet life, her mother in Tacoma, her brother’s college, her safety. She could take the key, get into the car, run away into the night, and never look back at the terrifying, broken billionaire who ruled the Seattle waterfront.

She looked up at Marcus.

“No,” Naomi said firmly.

Marcus blinked, stunned. “Ms. Carter... you don't understand what he’ll do if you stay and confront him. He’s never been exposed like this.”

“The seventeen women who ran were smart,” Naomi said, her voice rising with a ferocious, unbreakable strength that made the seasoned security chief step back. “They saved themselves. But running away is why Daniel Han is still doing this. Running away is why he thinks he’s a monster who can only control people through fear.”