Chapter 8

Burke's eyes narrowed. Her calm acceptance irritated him. He expected tears. He expected begging.

He turned his back on her and walked to the nightstand. He pulled open the drawer, grabbed a thick stack of papers, and threw them across the room.

The papers hit Frieda's chest and scattered across the carpet.

"Look at them," Burke commanded.

Frieda looked down. The top page was a bank transfer receipt. The bold numbers $50,000,000 stared back at her, wired to Dillard Pharmaceuticals.

"That is your exact price tag," Burke sneered. "Every hair on your head belongs to me now."

Frieda stared at the zeroes on the paper. The humiliation burned in her stomach like acid, but she kept her face blank. She didn't say a word. Defending herself would only make him look closer.

Burke hated her silence. He paced in front of the bed.

"Rule number one," he barked. "You sleep on the floor. You do not touch my bed."

Frieda nodded slowly.

"Rule number two. You do not leave this room without my permission. You do not speak to my grandfather."

Frieda nodded again.

"Rule number three. You clean this room. No maids are allowed in my space. You do it."

Frieda looked up at him. Her eyes were dead and flat. "Understood."

Her obedience felt like a slap in the face to him. He wanted to break her. He pointed at the shattered glass on the floor.

"Clean it up. Now. Then go to the corner."

Frieda dropped to her knees. Her heavy wedding dress pooled around her. She began picking up the jagged pieces of glass with her bare hands.

She moved quickly and quietly.

A sharp edge sliced into her index finger. A bright bead of blood welled up instantly.

Frieda didn't gasp. Her medical training kicked in. She didn't put it in her mouth; that was a severe infection risk. Instead, she calmly pressed her thumb hard against the cut to stem the bleeding, her face a mask of absolute indifference, and used her other hand to keep picking up the glass.

Burke caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. He saw the red blood against her pale skin, and the chillingly clinical way she handled the pain.

His chest tightened. A strange, uncomfortable pull tugged at his heart. He hated it.

He cursed under his breath, climbed into bed, and pulled the heavy blanket over his head. But the faint smell of copper lingered in the air.

Half an hour later, Frieda threw the last piece of glass into the trash. She walked to the sofa, grabbed a decorative pillow, and curled up on the floor in the far corner of the room.

Her dress was still damp. The floor was freezing. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her knees.

Hours passed. The room was pitch black.

A violent coughing fit shattered the silence.

Burke hacked, his chest heaving. It sounded worse than the night in room 801. He sounded like he was choking on his own lungs.

Frieda woke up instantly. Her medical instincts kicked in. She scrambled off the floor and ran to the bathroom. She filled a glass with warm water and hurried to his side of the bed.

She held the glass out in the dark.

Burke thrashed. His arm swung out and smacked the glass.

The warm water splashed all over Frieda's chest. The glass hit the carpet with a dull thud.

"Get away from me!" Burke roared, his eyes wild and feverish in the dark. "Don't touch me with your filthy hands!"

Frieda stood there. The water soaked through her dress, making her even colder. The sting of his words hit her chest, but she pushed it down.

She picked up the empty glass. She walked to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and dried the nightstand. She poured a fresh glass of water and set it down carefully next to him.

She didn't say a word. She walked back to her corner, curled into a tight ball, and turned her back to him.

Burke lay in the bed, his chest heaving. He looked at the steaming glass of water. Then he looked at the shivering girl in the corner. His jaw clenched, his mind swirling with a confusing mix of rage and guilt.