Terrence Klein shifted in the car's front seat, weighing his options. His boss, Jason Reed, had approached the group near the sports car. The headlights illuminated the woman on the ground and three men.

He better not go crazy… Terrence had seen Jason lose control before. It was terrifying. He glanced around, checking for traffic cameras on this deserted stretch of road or any witnesses to Jason possibly killing someone. He prayed it wouldn't come to that, but he knew Jason and what he was capable of. This was going to be bloody and brutal.

The road had already been closed that night, so the presence of five people and a Ferrari was unexpected. They'd disturbed Jason, who valued his solitude. Every year on this day, Jason closed the road and spent it alone, wearing old clothes. No one dared question this, treating it as taboo. Even Terrence, a longtime employee, didn't know the reason.

As he watched his boss effortlessly lift a heavy man and repeatedly slam his head against the wall, Terrence hesitated. Should he intervene? Beating up would-be rapists was one thing; killing them was another. And these men were driving a Ferrari, not a Ford—meaning, like Jason, they were wealthy.

He started toward Jason, then paused as his boss suddenly stopped.

"Stop. Please," Grace touched the stranger's arm. "If you punch him again, he'll die."

"So what?" the man said, balling his fist as Christopher slid down the wall.

Grace was stunned. She finally saw the man clearly: handsome, with dark eyes, a strong jaw, full lips, and a strong build. His hair was styled in a longer, messy fashion. When Christopher scrambled to his feet, the man took a menacing step toward him.

"Don't," Grace said. "He isn't worth it."

The man's dark eyes fixed on her, conveying a deadly calm, as if life held no value. Grace took a deep breath. "It's not worth imprisonment for a lowlife like him."

The man didn't move, but she sensed him relaxing. Christopher seized the opportunity, gathering his friends and fleeing in their car. "You'll pay for this!" he screamed.

Grace wasn't sure who he addressed—her, the stranger, or both. Whatever the case, Christopher could do little she hadn't already endured in prison. The woman with the men leaned out of the car. "Holy sh*t! Is that Jason Reed!?"

The other three men reacted with shock. "Jason Reed, the richest man in the city? No fucking way."

Grace understood their surprise. The man—her savior—wore old clothes; he looked as broken as she felt. This wasn't a billionaire; his jacket was threadbare, his face haunted. Christopher sped off with his accomplices.

As the road quieted, Grace looked at the man. Hesitantly, she said, "Thank you for saving me."

He grunted but said nothing else. He crossed the road and sat against the wall. It was cold and windy, and the temperature was dropping. Would he survive the night sleeping on the road?

Considering his intervention, Grace approached him. "It's been a rough night. Aren't you going home? Do you have family? I can help you call them."

He slowly raised his head, and Grace saw death—the same emptiness she'd seen in her own eyes in prison; a darkness signifying hopelessness.

"If you have nowhere to stay, you can stay with me," she offered.

Grace hadn't expected to bring a stranger home. She wasn't impulsive, and hadn't dated or considered a relationship since Sean. But this man had saved her from rape, perhaps death. She shuddered at the thought. Those men were soulless, and the woman's complicity enraged her. As a lawyer, she'd fight for their imprisonment, but life taught her innocence rarely prevailed. Life wasn't fair. So why had she brought him home? Perhaps she wasn't ready to concede defeat.

Her apartment was small—one room with a kitchenette and bathroom. She grabbed a blanket and pillow, making a bed on the floor. "The bathroom's through there," she said.

He went in, and the water ran a moment later. When he emerged, his hair was wet. He'd washed his face and hair. His sleeves were rolled up. Grace fetched a towel. "Bend over, please."

He stared at her. "I just want to help you dry your hair. I have no bad intentions," she explained. "Wet hair can cause a cold."

He slowly complied. After a few minutes, he asked in a deep voice, "Are you concerned about me?"

"Yes," Grace met his gaze. "After bringing you home, I don't want you to get sick."

His eyes scrutinized her as he bent over. Toweling his hair, Grace asked, "What's your name?"

After a long silence, he answered, "Jay."

"Jay," Grace repeated. It was common, so she didn't dwell on it. "My name is Grace. Where do you live? What about your family?"

"I don't have any family," he replied.

She paused. How sad. No one should be alone. She'd had people, but they'd abandoned her. "Looks like we're in the same boat," she said with a bitter smile, continuing to dry his hair.

She fetched a comb. These small, intimate gestures—touching his hair, smoothing it from his face—were for this stranger who'd risked his life for her. As she brushed his hair back, his features were fully revealed. He was devastatingly attractive—strong jaw, full mouth, dark eyes—inches from hers, searing her where she stood.