No Escape: The Billionaire Won't Sign

She could feel his eyes boring into her back, burning a hole through her cheap coat.

The wind cutting through the sliding doors of JFK Terminal 4 didn't just blow.

It bit.

It was a wet, January gray that seeped right through the wool of Beatrix Anderson's coat, a coat that had seen better days three winters ago in Paris.

She stood on the curb, the exhaust fumes of a hundred idling taxis stinging her eyes.

People rushed past her, their shoulders hunched against the cold, dragging rolling suitcases that glided smoothly over the concrete.

Beatrix didn't have that luxury.

Her two suitcases were oversized, scuffed hard-shells that belonged to a different life, a life where porters handled the weight.

Now, one of the wheels on the larger case was jammed.

She gripped the handle, her knuckles turning white, and yanked it toward the curb.

It didn't budge.

She pulled harder, gritting her teeth, feeling the vibration rattle up her arm and settle in her shoulder.

A man in a business suit bumped into her, muttering an annoyance without looking back, his phone pressed to his ear.

Beatrix didn't blink.

She didn't expect an apology.

She had learned over the last three years that apologies were a currency she was no longer rich enough to afford.

A sleek, black Lincoln Navigator pulled up to the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the dreary sky.

It was the Spears family car.

She knew the license plate by heart, just as she knew the driver, a man named Thomas who used to give her candy when she was ten.

The trunk popped open with a hydraulic hiss.

Thomas didn't get out.

Beatrix stared at the open trunk, then at the driver's side door that remained firmly shut.

Message received.

She was the baggage now.

She bent her knees, wrapping her arms around the body of the heavier suitcase.

It was awkward, heavy with books she couldn't bear to leave in Europe.

She heaved it up, her breath hitching as the weight strained her lower back.

The plastic casing scraped against the bumper.

She shoved it in, breathless.

As she reached for the second bag, her index finger caught on the zipper.

Snap.

A sharp, stinging pain shot through her hand.

She looked down.

Her nail had broken deep into the quick, a bead of blood welling up instantly against the pale skin.

She stared at the red drop for a second, watching it tremble.

Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out a tissue, and wrapped her finger tight.

No tears.

Tears were for people who had someone to wipe them away.

She tossed the second bag in, slammed the trunk, and climbed into the back seat.

The interior smelled of leather and a specific, sterile citrus air freshener that Carlyle insisted on.

"Go," she said to the partition.

The car moved instantly.

Beatrix leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes.

Her hand throbbed.

She reached into her purse and