Blood on polished marble had never made Jonah Pierce lose his appetite.

The sun rose over Manhattan in shades of bruised slate and pale yellow. Rain still drizzled against the tall windows of the penthouse suite above Aurelia, where Jonah Pierce kept his private residence.

Stella sat on the edge of a massive king-sized bed wrapped in a plush black silk robe that smelled faintly of cedar and Jonah’s cologne. On the dining table nearby, an untouched breakfast tray held scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, and hot coffee.

She couldn't eat. The luxury of the apartment was terrifying. In Dean’s world, every meal, every clean towel, and every soft bed was an advance on a debt that would eventually be collected in blood or tears. She kept waiting for Jonah to demand his price.

The door opened smoothly, and Jonah stepped into the room. He wore a crisp dark grey suit, his dark hair combed back neatly, looking every bit the ruthless businessman who commanded the district.

Behind him walked Wyatt Mercer, carrying a thick leather folder.

“You didn’t eat,” Jonah observed, glancing at the untouched tray as he sat down in an armchair opposite her.

“I’m not hungry,” Stella said, pulling the robe tighter around her neck. “Mr. Pierce, please. My things are downstairs. I just want to go home.”

“You don't have a home there anymore, Stella,” Jonah said quietly. He nodded to Wyatt.

Wyatt opened the leather folder and set several high-resolution photographs on the coffee table between them.

Stella’s breath hitched.

The photographs showed Dean Keller’s apartment building. Two black SUVs were parked outside. In one photo, Dean was being dragged out of the front entrance by two imposing men in raincoats, his face bloody, his shirt torn.

“What did you do to him?” Stella gasped, her hand covering her mouth.

“I didn't do anything to him,” Jonah replied calmly. “Those men don't work for me. They work for Arthur Vance.”

The name fell into the quiet room like a heavy stone. Even Stella, who had tried hard to ignore Dean’s dark business dealings, knew the name Arthur Vance. Vance was a ruthless loan shark operating out of Brooklyn—a man known for extreme brutality and complete disregard for the traditional rules of the New York underworld.

“Dean didn't just owe me money,” Jonah explained, leaning back in his chair. “He borrowed thirty thousand dollars from Vance two weeks ago to cover his gambling debts at an illegal casino in Queens. He used your mother’s remaining life insurance policy—the one he secretly transferred into his name last year—as collateral.”

Stella felt the room tilt. “My mother’s... what?”

“He forged your signature eight months ago,” Wyatt added smoothly, his voice devoid of emotion. “He took full control of the payout. When the casino swept his account, he realized Vance was coming for him. That’s why he sent you to me last night.”

“He wanted me out of the apartment,” Stella realized, the horrifying truth dawning on her. “He knew Vance’s men were coming for him last night. He used me to deliver your money so I wouldn't be there when they smashed the door down... or so I would be caught in the middle if things went wrong.”

“He used you as a shield,” Jonah said softly, his dark eyes locked onto hers. “He calculated that if Vance’s men grabbed you, or if I held you hostage over his debt, it would buy him twenty-four hours to get to Kennedy Airport.”

A tear finally escaped Stella’s eye, tracking down her cheek. Three years of devotion, of enduring fists and insults, of rationalizing monster behavior as the unfortunate side effect of stress and bad luck—all laid bare as a cold, calculating trade. She was nothing to Dean. She had never been anything to him.

“Where is he now?” she asked, her voice cracking.

“Vance has him in a warehouse near the Brooklyn Navy Yard,” Wyatt reported. “Vance intends to make an example of him by nightfall unless the debt is cleared.”

Stella looked at Jonah. “Why are you showing me this? Why do you care?”

Jonah stood up, stepping closer to the bed. He stopped just outside her personal space, his tall frame imposing yet controlled.

“Because Dean Keller committed two unforgivable sins,” Jonah said, his tone drop-dead quiet. “First, he brought his filthy violence into my establishment and bled on my floor. Second... he thought he could use a woman’s pain to pay his bills with me.”

Jonah looked at Wyatt. “Call Vance. Tell him I’m buying Dean Keller’s debt.”