Chapter 6

High above the city, in the sprawling penthouse office of Reed Global, Hamilton sat in his massive leather chair. He was violently spinning a Montblanc fountain pen between his fingers, his eyes fixed blindly on the Manhattan skyline.

The heavy double doors of his office clicked open. Brennan Wheeler, his executive assistant, stepped inside holding an iPad tightly against his chest.

Brennan stopped exactly three feet from the desk. "Sir, Miss Simpson just finished her interview with the surgical department at Mt. Sinai."

Hamilton stopped spinning the pen. He raised an eyebrow, feigning total indifference. "And?"

Brennan looked down at his screen. "She was rejected. I... took the liberty of making a private call to their HR director this morning."

Hamilton's face turned instantly thunderous. He slammed the heavy metal pen down onto the glass desk. The sharp crack echoed in the large room.

"Brennan, have I ever failed to make it clear that anything regarding her is to be handled solely on my direct command?" Hamilton said, his voice a low, lethal whisper. "Your job is to execute my orders, not to play games with her life based on your own assumptions."

Brennan went pale. A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. He bowed his head quickly. "I apologize, sir. I assumed you wanted her to realize how difficult things would be so she would return quickly."

Hamilton's jaw clenched. Deep down, a sick part of him was relieved she had failed, but his pride hated that Brennan had acted without his command.

He violently loosened his silk tie, trying to ease the sudden tightness in his throat. "Do not touch her applications again," Hamilton ordered sharply. "Go down to the Cartier flagship on Fifth Avenue. Buy the newest diamond necklace collection. Bring it to her."

Brennan blinked, completely thrown by the whiplash of his boss's logic. "Yes, sir." He turned and practically fled the office.

Two hours later, Aimee was sitting at the scratched desk in her dorm room. She was massaging her throbbing temples.

Her laptop screen displayed a generic rejection email from Mt. Sinai. She let out a heavy sigh. She knew Hamilton's invisible hand was choking her opportunities.

Suddenly, two sharp, professional knocks rapped against her wooden door.

Aimee stood up instantly. Her muscles tensed. She walked silently to the door and peered through the peephole.

Brennan was standing in the dingy hallway, wearing his tailored suit, holding a very recognizable red velvet box in his hands.

Aimee frowned. She unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open, but only a few inches. She kept her body blocking the gap, offering him no room to enter.

Brennan plastered on a polite, corporate smile. He held the Cartier box out with both hands.

"Miss Simpson," Brennan said smoothly. "Mr. Reed feels you have had a difficult few days. He offers this as an apology, and hopes you will return to the apartment tonight."

Aimee stared at the expensive red box. Her heart didn't flutter. Her eyes were completely dead.

She didn't raise her hands to take it. She looked up at Brennan's face. "Does Hamilton honestly believe that my self-respect has a price tag?"

Brennan's smile froze. His hands remained awkwardly suspended in the air. "Miss Simpson, he just wants to make things right-"

"Take it back," Aimee cut him off, her voice slicing through the air like a scalpel. "Return it. Or throw it in the Hudson River. I don't care."

She narrowed her eyes, delivering her final blow. "You go back and tell Hamilton that his money is filthy. I am not some item he can purchase to soothe his guilty conscience. Tell him to never bother me again."

Brennan gasped, actually sucking in a breath of air. He was stunned that the usually quiet Aimee would demand something so audacious.

While he was frozen in shock, Aimee slammed the door directly in his face.

The force of the slam rattled the doorframe, sending a shower of dust down onto Brennan's expensive suit. He stared at the chipped wood, sighed heavily, and pulled out his phone to call his boss.

Inside the room, Aimee leaned her back against the door. Her chest was heaving. A fierce, triumphant heat burned in her veins.

She turned around to go back to her resume.

Suddenly, a piercing, terrified scream of a child shattered the quiet afternoon. It came from the street directly below her window.

Aimee's heart violently lurched. Her medical instincts overrode everything else. She sprinted to the window and shoved the dusty glass pane up, looking down at the street.

What she saw made her blood run cold. A little boy was kneeling on the pavement, shaking an unconscious elderly man.