Chapter 1
one
ROSE
There’s something cathartic about my pencil scraping over the drawing paper. Maybe it’s because the steady scratch of lead gives me a sense of purpose. Here, in my element, where every shape is formed at my command, I’m in control.
I can’t say the same about my life as the daughter of the chair of the board to the largest financial conglomerate in the United States. My destiny has always been in the hands of another, devoted to something bigger than my own desires. I know I’m lucky, but sometimes, the possibilities of who I could have been, had I strayed from my designated path, creates a hollowness inside of me.
A void that board meetings, moving up the corporate ladder, and approving pats on the back from my dad can’t fill.
I’ve accomplished so much. Things people in my world would say are the bare minimums to success—a master’s degree, a nice house, a job with potential if only I work hard enough. I should feel proud, and in a way, I am, but a bit of pride doesn’t prevent the terrible sadness that looms over the moments I have to myself. Almost as if the storm knows to wait until I’m vulnerable to unleash its full strength, forcing me to weather the feelings I bottle up every other second of the day.
Drawing helps. It gives me what I wouldn’t otherwise have—something of my own to look forward to. I can lose myself in my creations, and the portrait of a woman standing stagnant in a crowd of blurred figures rushing by is my latest escape.
Pausing, I study the piece.
How many other people in the world feel this way? Like they’re present and accounted for, but never quite seen or understood in the way that really matters. They’re known for their work and how dedicated they are, but not for the way they catch the light just right in their drawings or the way they smile when the sunrise catches the ripple of clouds and turns them pink. No. Most of society doesn’t have time for stuff like that.
So, I take my little moments, embracing the part of myself I haven’t lost to work and the dream my dad built.
A waitress stops by my table and refills my coffee, the rich and bitter aroma wrapping around me in a comforting hug. Sadness aside, it’s a perfectly relaxing morning. The bakery air is thick with a blend of freshly baked bread, coffee, and vanilla.
The scene is peaceful, which is perfect for my creativity. I reposition my pencil on the paper, but the bell on the door jingles before I can get lost in the drawing again, and I glance up. The six-foot-tall tattooed man prowling through the door ruins any chance of tranquility. With blond hair ruffled by the wind, a perfect jawline, strong nose, and eyes that shimmer with violence, Darian Richardson paints a fearsome picture.
As if sensing the predator in its midst, the atmosphere charges, crackling over my skin as he scans the bakery, taking in each worn table and patron until he finds me at the table tucked in the corner.
A chill runs down my spine, and I suck in a sharp breath. Holding his gaze is like staring a starving wolf in the eye. It’s not a good idea. Even though I’m probably in more danger than I realize, I can’t look away. My stomach clenches under his scrutiny, my hackles rising. His brown irises are dark and cold, but that’s to be expected.
The Beast of NYC has no heart to speak of.
The status of his soul is up for debate.
Some say he sold it to the devil in exchange for power. Those fantastical tales are silly. I think he lost it the day he murdered his parents and took control of their company. Either way, he’s a terror, and his favorite pastime is pissing off my dad. Be it buying up every share of my family’s company that he can get his hands on, throwing board votes, or disrupting smaller businesses within the conglomerate that is JD Miller & Co, he’s caused more trouble in the last few years than should be allowed. But we haven’t found a way to push him out.
It’s why I’m here.
The private investigator I hired spent close to a year following Darian, searching for any sign of weakness. I know where he lives—in Hudson Yards—how often he fucks—oddly enough, not a lot—and where his spare house is located—tucked away in the Adirondacks. But none of that helped me. It took a year of waiting and watching. Now, I finally know what’ll tame the Beast of NYC.
Frank’s Bakery, a staple storefront located in the Upper West Side, is the kryptonite I’ve been searching for. The thing I don’t understand is what this place means to Darian. Why he’s carrying the business. Why he cares about anything, when he killed three men in cold blood last year.
At least, that’s what the rumor mills claim. The police couldn’t find any evidence. I don’t know how he gets away with it every time, but like Dad always says, money can buy you a lot of things, like loyalty from New York’s finest, high-powered lawyers, or freedom from the law.
How does Darian sleep at night with such bloody hands?
There’s no point in trying to understand a monster like him.
There’s especially no sense in thinking about anything other than escape as his eyes narrow to sharp slits and he steps toward me. The ground doesn’t tremble, but my breathing does. Everything surrounding me fades away as I fall into his snare, facing him head-on, and even more concerning, alone.
Never show your fear, Rosalynn. We’re Millers, people fear us.
Dad’s reminder rings through my ears. Trying to steady my breath, I force myself to relax and carefully close my sketch pad, picking up my coffee and taking a drink. Pale yellow walls at my back and right side do nothing to block Darian prowling in my direction. The women—young and old, alike—pause to take him in, moths drawn to a flame.
It’s annoying that Darian is not just a deadly corporate menace but also hot as hell. Tattoos crawl up one lightly tanned forearm, bold sweeps of color that disappear beneath the fitted black T-shirt stretching tightly over his bulging biceps.
His fierce steps eat up the distance between us.
My heart skitters in my chest, but years of learning to conceal my thoughts and emotions, to keep my dad and the board happy, have my lips firmly pressed into the faint hint of a smile.
Not too much, or they’ll never take you seriously.
Just enough that no one can accuse you of being a bitch.
The mask is so familiar, I can’t help wondering if I’ve forgotten what it’s like to simply be who I am. But I’m not just anyone. I’m Rose Miller, heir to JD Miller & Co. While there are a lot of wealthy families, five hold most of the power and money in NYC. The Miller family is one of them, and Darian is enemy number one.
Every nerve ending snaps with electricity as he approaches. My eyes never stray from his, something that only serves to place a hard line above his nose. Setting my cup down right as he stops beside my table, looming like a dark storm cloud, I arch an eyebrow.
“Darian.” I shouldn’t have come alone, but I was sure he’d be at the gym, like he always is at eight a.m. on a Friday. He’s wearing joggers and that T-shirt that molds to his body. So, he was on his way to work out, but somehow, he knew I was here.
My attention strays to Frank behind the counter. The stout man’s eyes flick between me and Darian, worry wrinkling his brow. He catches me watching him and scowls. He’s a baker and a snitch, go figure.
Slowly, I pull my focus from Frank and back to the man in front of me.
Darian could be carved out of stone—hard and unreadable, except for the faint flaring of his nostrils. His gaze drags across my face, razor sharp. “Rose.”
I’ve heard him speak before, always wondered how a man could have a voice so deep and rasping, but I’ve never heard him say my name. Something about the way it tumbles from his full lips, half growl, half warning—like he knows me, despite never having spoken to me outside of boardroom meetings—sends a flutter of excitement through my belly.
Tipping my head, I study him. “Hmm. Are we friends?”
“What?”
“Only friends call me Rose. It’s Rosalynn to you, Dare .” I use his nickname to piss him off.
He doesn’t correct me. Instead, he places his palms on the table and leans into my space. I’m sure he expects me to twist away from him. One of the many benefits of growing up with Joseph Miller for a dad was learning to stand my ground and hide my reactions.
Although Dare may be intimidating, in situations like this, I know how to play the game. Yes, my pulse is racing and trickles of fright are chilling my blood, but that doesn’t mean I’ll let him know that.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
My eyes drop to my sketch pad’s worn blue cover and the plate beside it that has remnants of golden flakes from my pastry covering it. “Breakfast.” Though not a complete lie, it’s also not the full truth.
Dare growls, a deep, throaty sound. “Don’t be a smartass.”
“But why would I stop when it makes you so mad?” I use my foot to push the chair across from me out. “Would you like to join me? Have a cuppa and tell me what this place means to you?”
He holds my gaze. Those dark brown irises pierce through mine. Up close, the touches of amber give the illusion of endless pools of darkness that I could fall into. Something tells me Dare would happily let me drown. I struggle to breathe as I stare right back. Something shifts in his eyes, almost as though there really is a monster lurking beneath the surface, and the challenge I’m presenting has awakened it.
Taking the seat I offered, he grabs my sketch pad. My stomach drops. I don’t like sharing my work with anyone, not after Dad laughed at my silly little drawings and told me to focus on the business. The last thing I want is for Dare to see my sketches and make fun of me.
When I reach to take it back, he tuts. “Journaling about how much you love your dad?”
Pursing my lips to keep from snapping, I grab for it again, but he leans back and opens it.
He studies the first page, which is a portrait I spent weeks perfecting. “Well, fuck, Rose, I didn’t take you for an artist.”
This is such an invasion of privacy. My hands shaking with rage, I tuck them under my legs and narrow my eyes at him. “Give it back,” I growl.
Dare arches his eyebrows and turns the page, slowly, as if to see how much of a rise he can get out of me. The next sketch is a self-portrait, of sorts. A singular eye, hazel green like mine, with a little girl inside the pupil, her mouth covered by a man’s hand. I drew it after a particularly frustrating argument with my dad, where he told me my job was to fall in line, not voice my opinion. Dad apologized later, and we’re fine now, but the sketch is too personal for someone like Dare to see.
Now that I think about it, the entire book is full of parts of me I don’t want him to see.
He studies the fine lines and shading for a moment, then his gaze lifts to meet mine. “This is really good. ”
His words slither through my walls, speaking to the woman who’s always been embarrassed of her creative side because it was never accepted or appreciated. There’s no room for art in world domination. Those exact words are what I’ve always hoped my dad would tell me when he saw my work, but that’s never been the case. The compliment is the opposite of what I anticipated, and I can’t stand it coming from Dare, of all people.
Before I can think better of it, I reach across the table and grasp the edges of the notebook, ready to yank it back, but his grip tightens.
“Dare.” My voice is rough with anger, and I don’t even recognize it as my own. “Let go. Now.”
Tipping his head, he searches my face. “Why don’t you want me to look?”
“Why do you want to look?” I fire back.
His lips twitch and he changes course. “Fine, I’ll give it back to you if you give me a kiss.”
“Fuck you.”
He glances around. “In front of everyone?”
“I bet you couldn’t even get it up.”
“Have a little more confidence in yourself, Rose.” His gaze strays down to my chest, and if I’m not mistaken, those soulless eyes fill with hunger.
I think the fuck not.
“I hate you.”
“Mmm.” His lips quirk into an infuriating smile. “That’ll make the sex even better.”
Huffing, I tug on my sketch pad, but he doesn’t relent. “You’re disgusting.”
“Careful, princess,” he warns. “Your emotions are showing.”
Scowling—because he’s right—I take a breath and collect myself, swallowing my anger and redirecting the conversation to what really matters. “What does this bakery mean to you?” Knowing he has some stake in it is nothing without understanding his reasons. Why would a billionaire like Dare keep a hole-in-the-wall place like this?
He lets go of the book so abruptly, I fall back into my seat. “Don’t start a game you can’t end.”
“There’s no game.”
He scoffs and rises, leaning over the table again to intimidate me. “There’s always a game, and you’re a pawn in your daddy’s.”
Oh, sick burn.
This isn’t the first time someone has implied my dad uses me, but if I’m meant to take over as chair of the board for JD Miller & Co someday, another part of the plan laid out for me, I have to learn to play. I have to be as cunning and strategic as my dad. I have to learn how to hold power over those who would seek to destroy what we’ve built.
“Did he send you on this little errand?” Dare asks.
“Like I said, I came for breakfast.” And a little time to indulge myself, but Dare has ruined the melancholic peace I found.
Fighting a scowl, I gather my things, sliding them into my oversized purse hanging on the back of the chair next to him. The table is so small, my forearm brushes over his. Heat shoots through my arm and into my chest. My body is already such a conflicting mix of emotions that I can’t even begin to understand what that might mean. I yank my bag off the chair and stand, forcing him to straighten unless he wants his face buried in my boobs, but luckily, Dare hates me as much as I hate him. He stands to his full height, a wall of solid muscle blocking my path .
I tip my head back, glaring at him, despite the trickle of fear seeping through my veins. “You’re in my way.”
“And what are you going to do about it, Rose?” The hard edge of his voice makes me want to run, and he must see it in my expression, because a smirk slowly cuts across his face.
Staying rooted to my spot, I force myself to slip back into the mask of indifference. He’s gained the upper hand more than once in this short conversation, and now he knows he can intimidate me. Maybe it’s time for him to know what that’s like. “Tell me, Dare , how are your sisters?”
It’s a wild stab at his vulnerability, because I have no idea where his sisters actually are, but it does the job. Any traces of amusement disappear, and cold fury quickly ripples over his features, his entire body going as still as a predator waiting to pounce on its prey.
My heart skips two beats. I wait, letting the unspoken threat roll through his mind for a few moments, then brush past him, my shoulder catching his. If he thinks his sisters are in danger, maybe he’ll leave me alone. Right as I think I’m about to escape, his hand snakes out to grab my wrist, and he tugs me against his body, his chest pressing into my back.
His fingers wrap around my throat to hold me in place, a necklace or a noose depending on the situation.
Plush lips brush over the shell of my ear, but the words he whispers are anything but soft. “Mention them again, and I’ll destroy you.”
My breath catches.
A noose it is.
A flush crawls up my neck as people turn to see me pressed against him. “There’s the beast,” I whisper .
An angry huff of air brushes over my cheek. “Run home to Daddy, Rose.” Releasing my wrist, Dare gives my back a slight push, and I take three quick steps away, scowling at him over my shoulder.
My scathing retort dies on the tip of my tongue. He’s staring at me, like he did a moment ago, but this time, the warmth has fled his brown irises, leaving behind a deadly, cold, calculating look that shakes me to my core.
For hating Joseph Miller so much, the way Dare watches me is eerily similar to my dad’s face when he confronts a challenge. I recognize the danger in the expression more than I care to admit, and my every instinct is telling me to run.
When powerful men struggle for control, no one wins.
Taunting him wasn’t a good idea.
If the Beast of NYC hated me before, now he sees me as a threat.
Which means I need to take him down before he makes good on his promise.