Harold Anderson — the man who ruled Belmanno City with an iron fist — turned out to be the mysterious stranger I'd saved five years ago, and the fiancé I had never once met. Rumor had it he was cold, ruthless, and utterly without desire, the kind of man no one in the city dared cross lightly.

I hadn't come to Anderson Group today for wealth or status. I came to fulfill my grandmother's dying wish.

"Hello, I'm Gabriella Roberts. I'm here to see Harold Anderson."

The two receptionists in the lobby looked up, and for a moment both of them lost their composure, their eyes flickering with undisguised admiration. Soft murmurs rippled through the room. I was used to it by now — I simply raised a hand to acknowledge them and moved on.

"Could you let him know I'm here?"

"Ms. Roberts, do you have an appointment?"

"No."

"I'm sorry, without an appointment we can't let you go up. And... Mr. Anderson isn't very fond of meeting with women."

"That's fine. I'll wait."

The words had barely left my mouth when a commotion erupted outside the lobby.

"The parking garage is on fire!" A security guard burst through the doors, his face tight with urgency. "Get everyone out now — there are people still trapped inside!"

Both receptionists went pale and immediately bolted after the guard. "Ms. Roberts, please wait here!"

"Of course."

Waiting had never really been my style, though. If he was on the top floor, why waste time standing around down here?

I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the highest floor. The numbers climbed.

I reached into my bag and took out a jade pendant. Its surface was smooth and lustrous, carved with a family crest I had studied more times than I could count: Anderson Family.

My grandmother had pressed it into my hands in her final hours. It was the only token of this engagement.

She had been very weak by then. "Gabbie," she'd said, "you've always been so strong. You could make it on your own — I know that. But I want you to have a home. Someone to lean on."

Looking at her pale face, I could only bring myself to say yes.

She had stroked the back of my hand gently. "Harold Anderson was betrothed to you by your grandfather's generation. This pendant is what the Anderson family left as a pledge. Go and meet him. If he's willing, give it a chance. If he's not, don't put yourself through it."

At the time I assumed it was nothing more than an old woman's worry, a last wish she couldn't let go of before she passed. It was only after she was gone that I understood — some wishes, once left with the living, become a weight you simply can't set down.

Ding.

The elevator doors opened. The top floor was unnervingly quiet.

I had barely stepped out when a low male voice drifted from behind the CEO's office door.

"Mr. Anderson, yesterday's test results are in. The outlook isn't good. The toxin in your system has decreased somewhat, but this latest flare has done considerable damage. We need to find a solution as soon as possible."

My feet stopped.

Poisoned. Harold Anderson — the man the whole city considered untouchable — had been wrestling with death this whole time?

Harold's voice was steady. "Henry, what's the progress on that pill I gave you?"

Henry sighed. "It does suppress the toxin, but the composition is incredibly complex — I haven't fully broken it down yet. If we could find the girl who saved you five years ago, we might actually be able to clear it for good."

My fingers tightened around the pendant, its carved edge pressing into my palm.

Poison. A pill. Five years ago.

My heartbeat stumbled.

The gunshots on Misty Mountain rang out in my memory as if they'd never gone quiet.

I had gone up there to gather herbs, when I spotted a man in a black trench coat lurching behind a tree. He wore a silicone mask, had taken a bullet to the shoulder blade, and his right arm was grazed and bleeding — he'd left a trail of blood the whole way. Worse, he'd been poisoned.

When his pursuers closed in, I had no real reason to get involved. But the man could barely stand from blood loss, and he raised his gun and dropped the lead pursuer with cold precision. That particular brand of ferocity — a dying man who refused to yield — made me look twice. That second look is what made me act.

I took out the men with throwing darts, removed the bullet, used acupuncture needles to stem the bleeding, and placed a black pill between his lips.

When he came to, his eyes were still sharp — hard, guarded — though he was too weak to speak.

I noticed a tear in his silicone mask and nearly reached out to pull it away. Then the thrum of helicopter rotors rolled in from the distance, and I drew my hand back. I pressed the medicine vial into his palm instead.

"You've been poisoned. Take one pill when it flares."

Then I left.