Chapter 5 5

The morning air was sharp and cold. Bridget wore a large pair of black sunglasses and a heavy trench coat as she walked into the private oncology clinic on the Upper East Side. There was no sign outside the building.

The interior looked like a luxury hotel lobby. The silence in the room was heavy and depressing. The receptionist behind the marble desk looked up, her eyes scanning Bridget with professional suspicion.

Bridget pulled the manila envelope from her bag. She placed it on the desk.

"I am Ms. Roe's new assistant. The courier sent her file to the wrong address. I am returning it."

The nurse took the envelope. Her face showed no emotion. She scanned the barcode on the back.

"Thank you for returning it."

Bridget leaned forward slightly, forcing a polite smile.

"I need to arrange her travel schedule. Could you tell me when Dr. Evans needs her back for her next specialized treatment session?"

The nurse's eyes instantly turned to ice.

"Under the HIPAA privacy act, I cannot confirm or deny any patient information. Have a good day, ma'am."

Bridget's stomach sank. She knew pushing harder would only cause security to throw her out. She turned away in frustration and walked toward the elevator bank to leave.

Just as her finger pressed the down button, a soft chime echoed through the lobby. The doors of the VIP private elevator slid open.

Two men in custom-tailored suits stepped out. They were speaking in low voices.

Bridget's breath caught in her throat. It was Damond Oneill. Beside him was his business partner, Miles.

Panic flooded Bridget's veins. She spun around and stepped behind a massive potted palm tree in the corner of the hallway, pressing her back against the wall.

Damond did not look up. He was staring at a medical report in his hands, his brow furrowed.

Miles lowered his voice, but the hallway was so quiet Bridget could hear every word.

"You are spending too much time focusing on that Vincent bastard, Damond. It is bad for business."

Hearing herself called a bastard made Bridget's chest burn. She held her breath, her fingers digging into the bark of the palm tree.

"Cheyenne is the legitimate heir," Miles continued. "She is the one we need for the merger. That lost kitten you picked up is just going to bring you messy family drama."

Damond let out a cold, sharp laugh. He handed the medical report to Miles. His voice was completely devoid of emotion.

"The Vincent family's internal war is our opening, and she is the critical variable. You don't need to understand my entire design, Miles. Just execute the orders."

The word hit Bridget like a physical strike to the stomach. The blood drained from her face. Her hands started to shake.

"Good," Miles sighed in relief. "Just don't get attached to the prey."

Damond did not answer. He looked up, his gray eyes sweeping across the lobby. His gaze stopped for exactly one second on the hem of Bridget's trench coat, which was visible behind the plant.

Bridget stopped breathing. She waited for him to call her out, to humiliate her.

But Damond just looked away. He pushed open the glass doors and walked out to the waiting black Maybach.

Bridget stepped out from behind the tree. Her entire body felt like it was made of ice. The tiny, stupid spark of hope she had felt in his penthouse was dead. He was exactly what everyone said he was: a cold-blooded monster who only saw people as tools.

Anger, hot and violent, replaced the coldness in her veins. She would never let a man control her fate again.

She walked back toward the reception desk. The nurse was turned away, answering a phone call. Bridget leaned over the marble counter and stared at the nurse's computer screen. The daily schedule was open.

She memorized the name next to the 10:00 AM slot for 'Jane Roe'. Dr. Evans.

Bridget walked out of the clinic. She pulled out her phone and searched for Dr. Evans. The first result loaded instantly. Dr. Richard Evans. Director of Experimental Cellular Therapies and Highly Classified Medical Procedures. She was undergoing an aggressive, secretive medical treatment. The vague, terrifying words blurred on the screen.

Bridget leaned her back against the brick wall of the building. She pressed her hand hard against her collarbone, trying to stop the physical pain in her chest. Tears spilled over her eyelashes and ran down her cheeks.

She wiped the tears away aggressively. She could not fall apart. Her mother was dying, her father was trying to steal their company, and the most powerful man in New York was using her as a pawn.

Bridget's eyes hardened. She would have to become a monster to survive them all.