At exactly 7:14 p.m., he stepped into the private dressing suite inside Carter Tower in New York City, searching for the cufflinks someone had misplaced before the annual Carter Foundation fundraiser. I stood frozen in front of the mirror with my stained blouse halfway off my shoulders, clutching a clean black blouse against my chest.

The B3 parking level of Carter Tower was a vast, dimly lit expanse of concrete pillars, luxury vehicles, and heavy shadow. The air smelled of exhaust fumes, damp concrete, and cold air.

I stepped out of the executive elevator, my heels clicking softly against the concrete floor.

Near the far wall, parked beside a concrete support pillar, stood a sleek grey Ford van with tinted windows.

The side sliding door of the van slowly creaked open.

Andrew Vaughn stepped out into the dim light.

He was unrecognizable from the golden surgeon who had stood at the charity gala three weeks ago. His hair was messy, his eyes bloodshot and hollow, his expensive suit wrinkled and dirty. In his right hand, he held a small black digital device with a red flashing LED light—the detonator.

“You came,” Andrew sneered, a twisted, maniacal grin spreading across his face. “I knew you were still a good, obedient girl, Ava.”

I stopped ten feet away from him, keeping my distance, keeping my hands visible.

“Where are the devices, Andrew?” I demanded, keeping my voice as calm as possible. “Leave the building. The police are already monitoring your home confinement ankle bracelet! They will be here in minutes!”

Andrew laughed hysterically, tapping his ankle, where a black plastic GPS tracker sat attached to his leg. “This thing? My father paid an IT specialist twenty thousand dollars to mirror the signal! The police think I’m sitting comfortably in my penthouse in the Upper East Side!”

He stepped closer to me, the black detonator clutched tight in his trembling fingers.

“You destroyed my life, Ava!” Andrew hissed, his voice rising in pitch. “My license is gone! My father disowned me! My career is over! And all because you couldn't keep your mouth shut in front of Ethan Carter!”

“You destroyed your own life, Andrew,” I said fiercely, standing tall, refusing to shrink back. “You abused me. You blackmailed your colleagues. You stole from your own hospital. You did this to yourself!”

Andrew’s face twisted in pure rage. He raised his left hand, aiming a heavy glass bottle of chloroform directly at my face, preparing to lung forward.

“I’m taking you with me, Ava!” Andrew screamed. “If I can’t have you, no one will!”

“Drop the device, Vaughn!” a thunderous, commanding voice roared across the concrete garage.

Andrew jumped, turning his head sharply toward the elevator bay.

Ethan Carter stepped out from behind a concrete pillar.

He wasn't alone.

Flanking him were six heavily armed officers from the NYPD Special Response Unit, their laser-sighted assault rifles aimed directly at Andrew’s chest.

Andrew panicked, stepping back against the van, raising the black detonator high in the air. “Don't come any closer! I’ll blow the 80th floor right now!”

Ethan didn't stop walking. He moved forward with slow, deliberate, unstoppable power, his slate-grey eyes locked onto Andrew with absolute contempt.

“Go ahead, Andrew,” Ethan said smoothly, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. “Press the button.”

Andrew’s thumb hovered frantically over the red switch. “I’m not kidding, Carter! I’ll kill everyone on that floor!”

“You can’t,” Ethan replied coldly. He pulled a silver device from his coat pocket and held it up. “That detonator runs on a short-range 433-megahertz radio frequency. The moment Ava entered the elevator, my security team activated a military-grade signal jammer across the entire building. That plastic toy in your hand couldn't light a birthday candle.”

Andrew gasped, pressing the red button furiously.

Nothing happened. The red LED light flickered twice and went completely dead.

Andrew looked at the useless device in utter horror, dropping it onto the concrete floor.

Before he could reach for anything else, two tactical officers tackled him to the ground with immense force, slamming his face against the cold concrete, pinning his arms behind his back, and snapping heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists.

“Andrew Vaughn!” an officer bellowed. “You are under arrest for attempted domestic terrorism, extortion, and violation of bail terms!”

As Andrew wept hysterically on the concrete floor, being dragged away by the police officers, Ethan rushed past the tactical team and pulled me into his arms.

He held me so tightly I could feel the rapid, frantic beat of his heart against his chest.

“Are you okay?” Ethan breathed into my hair, his hands shaking as he cupped my face. “God, Ava... why didn't you tell me when he called?”

“I couldn't risk your life, Ethan,” I whispered, burying my face against his neck, holding onto his jacket for dear life. “I couldn't let him hurt you.”