His Sister's Fiancé, My Forbidden Protector

The wind on the terrace of The Vault was not unforgiving. It was cruel.

It whipped against the thin silk of Scarlett Miller's emerald evening gown, biting into her exposed skin, but she didn't shiver. She couldn't. Her body had gone numb three scotches ago.

Inside, through the heavy velvet curtains and the soundproof glass, the Manhattan elite were celebrating. Crystal glasses clinked. Laughter erupted like gunfire. Somewhere in that warm, golden room, Sebastian Vance was announcing his engagement to a woman who wasn't Scarlett. A woman whose last name came with a trust fund and a seat on the board of the Met.

Scarlett gripped the cold railing. Below her, the city was a grid of electric veins, pulsing with life she no longer felt part of. She brought the crystal tumbler to her lips, draining the last of the amber liquid. It burned going down, a welcome distraction from the hollow ache in her chest.

Click.

The sound was sharp. Distinct.

Scarlett jumped, her heel catching in the gap of the wooden decking. She spun around, her heart hammering against her ribs.

A flame flared in the shadows of the terrace corner. It illuminated a hand-large, long-fingered, a heavy gold signet ring on the pinky. The flame moved up, lighting the tip of a cigar, and for a split second, a face.

Sharp cheekbones. A jawline that looked like it had been carved from granite. Eyes that were dark, intelligent, and currently watching her with an unsettling lack of interest.

Harrison Sterling Jr.

He snapped the lighter shut. The darkness returned, swallowing him whole, leaving only the glowing cherry of the cigar.

"You're going to break your neck," a voice said. It was deep, scraping against the silence like gravel.

Scarlett tried to steady herself, but the alcohol had compromised her balance. She tugged at her foot. The heel was stuck. "I didn't know anyone was out here."

"Obviously." He didn't move to help her. He just leaned against the brick wall, exhaling a plume of smoke that drifted toward her, mixing with the scent of rain and expensive cologne. "If you're planning to jump, I'd advise against it. The awning on the second floor will just break your legs. It's a messy way to die."

"I'm not jumping," Scarlett snapped, tugging harder. "I'm just... stuck."

She yanked her foot. The shoe gave way suddenly.

Physics took over. Scarlett lurched backward, arms flailing. She braced for the impact of the hard wood, squeezing her eyes shut.

It never came.

An arm, hard as iron, banded around her waist. The impact knocked the breath out of her. She was slammed against a wall of solid muscle and wool. Her hands instinctively grabbed the lapels of his cashmere coat to steady herself.

She looked up.

Harrison was looking down. Up close, he was terrifyingly handsome. Not the pretty-boy handsome of Sebastian Vance. This was a dangerous, predatory kind of beauty. His eyes were the color of a stormy ocean, and they were scanning her face with a mixture of annoyance and cold appraisal.

"Careful, Ms. Miller," he murmured. He knew her name. Of course he did. Everyone knew the girl Sebastian Vance had discarded like last season's Prada.

"Let me go," she whispered, though her hands didn't let go of his coat. The heat radiating from him was intoxicating against the freezing wind.

"You're shivering," he noted, his voice devoid of sympathy. He didn't let go immediately. His hand on her lower back was firm, controlling, like he was handling a piece of unstable cargo.

Scarlett looked at his mouth. It was a stern, unsmiling line. The alcohol in her blood made her bold. It made her reckless. She was tired of being the victim. Tired of being the sad, abandoned girl. She leaned in, a desperate need for connection, for anything other than the cold, driving her forward.

Harrison's hand moved up to her jaw, his grip tightening painfully. He stopped her inches from his face.

"Don't," he commanded, his voice low and laced with disgust. "Do not make yourself pathetic, Scarlett. Desperation is a cologne that doesn't suit you."

He released her abruptly, as if she burned him. Scarlett stumbled back, catching herself on the railing, humiliated heat rushing to her cheeks.

The terrace door opened.

"Harry? You out here?"

Harrison adjusted his cuffs, looking at her with eyes that were now completely void of emotion. The momentary flicker of intensity was gone, replaced by the steel mask of the city's most ruthless litigator.

"My driver is downstairs," he said, his voice flat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. It was black, heavy, with gold foil lettering. "Take it. Go home, Scarlett. Before you embarrass yourself further."

He didn't wait for an answer. He turned and walked back into the light, leaving her alone in the cold.

Scarlett looked at the card. Harrison Sterling Jr.

Shame washed over her, hot and prickling. She felt cheap. A charity case. A nuisance to be managed.

She walked to the large stone planter near the terrace exit. With a shaking hand, she tossed the card into the ivy.

"I don't need your pity," she whispered to the wind.

Twenty minutes later, Scarlett stumbled into her apartment. The lights were off, which was strange. Her aunt Rachel usually left a lamp on.

"Aunt Rachel?" Scarlett flicked the switch. Nothing happened.

"The landlord cut the main breaker, Scarlett."

Rachel was sitting on the sofa in the dark, illuminated only by the streetlights filtering through the blinds. She looked ten years older than she had this morning. Her face was pale, her eyes red and swollen.

"What?" Scarlett dropped her purse. "I paid the rent."

"It's not the rent," Rachel's voice cracked. "He saw the news. He invoked the 'morality clause' in the lease. He wants us out by morning."

Scarlett felt the room spin. "What news?"

Rachel stood up, holding out a tablet. The screen glowed in the dark.

BREAKING NEWS: Robert Miller Arrested in Massive Ponzi Scheme Investigation. Miller Family Foundation Assets Seized.

"They're saying he stole millions, Scarlett. They're saying the foundation was a front." Rachel was sobbing now. "They're asking for five million dollars bail. We don't have five hundred. The accounts are frozen."

Scarlett stared at the screen. Her father, in handcuffs, being shoved into a car. Her gentle, piano-playing father.

Her phone buzzed. Then again. Then a continuous vibration. Messages from friends cancelling lunch. Reporters asking for comments.

Her world was collapsing. In real-time.

"I need to fix this," Scarlett muttered, pacing the small room. "I need money. I need a lawyer."

She scrolled through her contacts. Blocked. Voicemail. Disconnected.

Her thumb hovered over one name. Sebastian Vance.

He was the only one with the liquidity. He owed her. He had used her father's connections to start his firm.

She dialed.

It rang four times. Then, a click. The background noise was loud-music, laughter. The party she had just left.

"Well, well," Vance's voice was slurred, mocking. "If it isn't the ex."

"Sebastian, please," Scarlett gripped the phone. "My dad. They arrested him. I need... I need help with the bail."

Vance laughed. It was a cruel, wet sound. "I heard. Tough break, babe. But why would I help a criminal?"

"He's innocent! And you know him. You know he wouldn't-"

"Come to my office tomorrow. Nine a.m.," Vance interrupted. "We can discuss terms. If you're willing to beg."

The line went dead.

Scarlett lowered the phone. She felt sick. Beg. That's what it had come to.

She walked to the window, looking down at the street. Rain had started to fall, slicking the pavement.

Her mind flashed back to the terrace. To the stone planter where she had discarded the only other lifeline she might have.

Harrison Sterling Jr.

The man who had looked at her with cold disdain. But he was a lawyer. The best.

Scarlett looked at her aunt weeping on the couch. She looked at the breaking news banner on the tablet.

She grabbed her coat and ran out the door. She had to get back to The Vault before the cleaning crew cleared the terrace.