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.

The elevator ride back to the forty-fifth floor was the longest ninety seconds of Naomi’s life. The storm outside had reached its peak, howling against the steel framework of the Meridian Tower, driving thick sheets of rain across the glass.

When the elevator doors slid open into the penthouse lobby, Daniel was standing in the center of the dark living room.

He had woken up. He wore his black trousers and his white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, his hair rumpled. He was holding a glass of water, staring out at the storm, but the moment he heard the elevator chime, he turned around.

His eyes locked onto her bare feet, her wet ankles from the garage floor, and the cold, terrifying fury radiating from her face.

“Naomi?” he asked, taking a step toward her, setting his glass on the marble island. “Where were you? I woke up and the guest room was empty.”

Naomi walked past him without a word, stepping over to the marble counter where his silver keycard fob lay beside a loaded 9mm handgun he kept in a hidden drawer. She reached out, picked up the gun by its grip, and set it squarely in the middle of the island counter between them, six feet away.

Daniel stopped dead in his tracks. The color drained from his face, leaving his sharp cheekbones stark and ghostly under the ambient glow of the city lights.

“Naomi...” he whispered, his voice cracking. “What are you doing?”

“The black SUV,” she said, her voice terrifyingly calm.

Daniel stopped breathing.

“The photographs left outside my apartment. The man who followed me from Harborview. The message taped beneath my windshield wiper.”

His dark eyes opened wide, a deep, sickening realization flooding his mind.

She stepped backward, keeping the counter between them. “You told me your enemies were doing it.”

He said nothing.

Naomi’s voice became quieter, dropping into the register of a woman who had seen the absolute worst of humanity in trauma wards and refused to be shaken by it.

“You told me I was in danger because I was standing beside you.”

“Naomi—”

“I saw the garage footage, Daniel,” she said softly.

Something shattered in his face. Not surprise. Not rage. Defeat. Pure, unadulterated, catastrophic defeat.

The great Daniel Han—the man who controlled shipping lanes, who made politicians tremble, who moved millions of dollars with a single phone call—looked down at his ink-covered hands as if they belonged to a stranger.

“The driver works for you,” Naomi whispered, the finality of the statement hanging in the air like a executioner’s axe.

Thunder rolled across Elliott Bay, rattling the massive glass panes behind them. Daniel looked toward the handgun on the counter, then back up into her eyes.

“Tell me to walk away,” Daniel whispered, his voice trembling as he stepped around the counter, closing the distance between them until his forehead rested against hers. Rainwater from her hair dripped onto his white shirt, soaking into the fabric. “Tell me now, Naomi. Before I ruin the only good thing that ever stayed.”

He was giving her the option to destroy him. He was standing naked before her emotionally, offering her the gun, offering her the exit, waiting for the blow he believed he deserved.