Chapter 7 7

Rain lashed against the windows of the Maybach. It was a torrential downpour, turning New York City into a blurred watercolor painting.

Bronwyn sat in the back seat, holding a bottle of Fiji water Jennings had thrust at her. The leather seat was warm.

"Drink," he said. He was typing on a tablet, not looking at her.

"Where are we going?"

"Your address is in Queens. The driver knows the way."

Bronwyn took a sip. The water was cold and clean.

"The Ghost," Jennings said suddenly. He put the tablet down. "Do you think I'm an idiot?"

"I don't care what you think," Bronwyn said. "Let me out."

"We're on the bridge. Unless you want to swim, sit still." He turned his body toward her. "Why is a surgeon with your skills working in a dive bar?"

Bronwyn froze. "You investigated me?"

"I read the news. The kid who broke my nose is your brother."

"It's none of your business."

"You owe me three thousand dollars," Jennings said calmly. "If your brother goes to prison, you'll never pay me back. You'll be spending every dime on commissary."

It was cruel because it was true.

"He won't go to prison," she whispered. "I'll find a lawyer."

"Victoria Bowen has blacklisted the case," Jennings said. "You won't find a lawyer who values their career more than the Bowen account."

Bronwyn felt the tears prick her eyes. She hated him for saying it out loud.

"What do you want me to do? Watch him die?"

Jennings looked at her. He saw the desperation. It annoyed him. He hated messy emotions.

"Work for me," he said.

Bronwyn blinked. "What?"

"Your skills are... valuable. I have use for a surgeon who operates outside the lines. Work for me exclusively, on retainer. In return, the Bowen Group's legal team eats people like your brother's D.A. for lunch."

"What's the price?" Bronwyn asked, her voice hardening. "Do I have to be your mistress? Or your private surgeon?"

"The price is obedience," Jennings said. "You belong to me. Your hands, your skills, your time. I will own you. And in return, I will solve your problem."

Bronwyn went cold. It was a gilded cage, but a cage nonetheless. She had run from one master, she wouldn't willingly walk to another.

"Stop the car," she said.

"We aren't there yet."

"Stop the car!" she screamed. "I'm going to be sick!"

Jennings flinched. The memory of the bar was visceral. He tapped the partition. "Pull over."

The car screeched to a halt on the shoulder.

Bronwyn threw the door open and scrambled out into the rain. She didn't vomit. She ran. She ran toward the subway entrance a block away, disappearing into the dark, wet mouth of the underground.

Jennings watched her go. He sat in the dry, warm car, feeling a strange, unfamiliar sensation in his chest.

Frustration.