Wrong Room: The Ruthless CEO's Captive

Joanna Santana's fingers slipped against the heavy brass handle of the double doors. The metal was cold against her palm, but her skin felt like it was burning from the inside out. Three glasses of champagne. Maybe four. She couldn't remember anymore. The gallery opening had been a blur of fake smiles and cheaper wine than the price tags suggested.

She pushed.

The doors gave way with a soft pneumatic sigh, and Joanna stumbled into a corridor that swallowed sound. The carpet was so thick her heels sank into it, muffling every step. She blinked, trying to clear the swimming darkness at the edges of her vision. Wrong floor. She knew it the moment the silence hit her. The party had been on twelve. This was-she squinted at the brushed steel elevator panel down the hall-twenty-six.

"Perfect," she muttered. Her voice sounded wrong. Too loud. Too slurred.

She reached for the wall to steady herself. Her fingers found silk wallpaper, something expensive that felt like money under her nails. One step. Two. Her left ankle rolled on the third step, the four-inch heel catching in the carpet's plush pile.

"Shit-"

The pain was sharp and immediate, shooting up her calf. She grabbed for the wall but missed. Her shoulder hit a hard, flat surface. A door. It swung inward with a weight that spoke of solid oak and custom hinges, and Joanna tumbled through the opening into absolute blackness.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The sound was final. Sealed. She was alone in the dark with her own ragged breathing and the distant hum of Manhattan twenty-six floors below.

Joanna pushed herself up from the floor. Her palms found marble, cold and smooth. She got one knee under her, then the other. The room smelled like cedar and something else. Something warm. She reached out blindly and her hand connected with fabric. Cotton. Warm skin underneath.

A chest.

She froze.

The chest moved. Inhaled. The body attached to it shifted, and Joanna felt herself being shoved backward with a force that knocked the air from her lungs. Her back hit the wall. Hard.

"Who the hell-"

The voice was male. Low. Dangerous. Joanna's drunk brain processed the sound in fragments. Deep. Angry. Close. Too close.

She tried to speak. Her tongue felt thick. "I-water. I need-"

Her knees buckled. The room spun. She reached for something, anything, and her fingers closed around an arm. Muscle. Tension. Heat radiating through the thin cotton of a shirt.

The arm tried to shake her off. Joanna held on. Her face pressed against something warm and firm, the texture of fabric over muscle. A shoulder. She breathed in. Cedar. Soap. Male. The combination made her head swim worse than the champagne.

"Let go." The words were clipped. Controlled. "I'm calling security."

Joanna heard the threat. Her brain formed the appropriate response-apologize, explain, run-but her body wouldn't cooperate. She was so tired. So warm. The wall behind her was cold, but the body in front of her was furnace-hot, and her drunk mind couldn't decide which sensation to follow.

She made a sound. It wasn't words. It was closer to a whimper. A protest. Her fingers tightened on his arm.

The body went still.

Joanna felt the change in him. The shift from rejection to something else. Something that made the air between them feel charged, electric. She tilted her head back, trying to see his face, but the darkness was absolute. She could only feel him. Smell him. Sense the sudden coiling tension in the muscles under her hands.

Her lips brushed skin.

His throat. The hollow where his pulse beat. She felt it jump against her mouth-once, twice-then his breath came out rough and heavy.

"Don't."

The warning came too late. Or maybe she didn't hear it at all. Joanna was lost in the sensation, in the warmth, in the strange safety of this stranger's body. She pressed closer. Her hips found his. The contact sent a jolt through her that had nothing to do with alcohol.

He moved.

One second she was leaning against him, the next her back was flat against the wall and his body was pinning her there. Hard. Unyielding. His hands found her shoulders and pressed her into the silk wallpaper with a force that should have hurt. That did hurt. But the pain was distant, filtered through the haze in her brain, and it mixed with something else. Something that made her arch into him instead of away.

"Who are you?" The question was growled against her ear. His breath was hot. His teeth grazed her lobe. "What are you doing in my room?"

Joanna tried to answer. Her mouth opened, but the only sound that came out was a breathy sigh. She was burning up. The wall was cold against her back, but his chest was fire against her breasts, and she couldn't stop herself from rubbing against him like a cat seeking warmth.

His hands tightened on her shoulders. She felt his fingers dig in, felt the pressure of individual bones. He was going to push her away. Throw her out. The thought made her desperate.

"Please," she whispered. She didn't know what she was asking for. Water. Mercy. Something else. Something her body understood even if her mind didn't.

He made a sound. It was part curse, part surrender. Then his mouth was on hers, and there was no more thinking.

The kiss wasn't gentle. It was punishment and possession and something darker that Joanna didn't have words for. His teeth caught her lower lip, pulled, released. His tongue pushed into her mouth without invitation, tasting her, claiming her. Joanna gasped into the kiss, her hands flying up to grip his shoulders, and he used her surprise to press closer, to fit himself into the cradle of her hips with a precision that made her moan.

She had never been kissed like this. She had never been kissed at all, not really, not this. This was consumption. Annihilation. His hands left her shoulders to slide down her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the thin silk of her dress, and Joanna's knees gave out completely.

He caught her. One arm banded around her waist, lifting her, carrying her. She felt the wall disappear from her back, felt the vertigo of being moved through darkness. Her fingers tangled in his hair-short, thick, soft-and she pulled, hard.

He growled against her mouth. The sound vibrated through her chest.

Then she was falling. Not far. Just enough to feel the give of a mattress beneath her back, the cool slide of expensive sheets against her overheated skin. He came down on top of her, his weight pressing her into the bed, and Joanna's breath left her in a rush that felt like drowning.

His hands were everywhere. Pushing her dress up her thighs. Skimming the edge of her underwear. She felt the fabric tear-heard the rip of lace-and then his fingers were there, touching her in a place no one had ever touched, and Joanna's back arched off the bed with a cry that didn't sound like her own.

"You're so wet." The words were ground out against her collarbone. His voice was different now. Rougher. Broken. "Already. For a stranger."

Joanna shook her head. She didn't know what she was denying. The stranger part. The wet part. The way her body was responding to him with a hunger that terrified her. She tried to close her legs, but his hips were between them, his thighs forcing hers apart, and there was nowhere to go.

He sat back. She felt the loss of his weight, the cold air rushing in to replace his heat. Then his hands were on her knees, pushing them wider, and Joanna realized with a jolt of clarity that cut through the alcohol that she was completely exposed. Vulnerable. Open.

She tried to sit up. "Wait-"

He came back down. His mouth found her breast through the silk of her dress, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and Joanna's protest died in her throat. His hand slid back between her legs, two fingers pushing inside her with a suddenness that made her gasp.

The stretch burned. Not enough preparation. Not enough anything. But the burn was drowned out by the wave of sensation that followed, the way her body clamped down on his fingers, the way he groaned against her skin like she was the best thing he'd ever felt.

"You're tight." He said it like an accusation. His fingers moved, curling, finding a spot that made Joanna's vision spark white even in the darkness. "So fucking tight."

She was panting now. Her hips moved without her permission, rocking against his hand, seeking more. More pressure. More friction. More of the building tension that was coiling low in her belly, tighter and tighter, until she thought she might break apart.

He withdrew his fingers. Joanna made a sound of loss, of protest, but then she heard the rustle of fabric, the tear of a foil packet, and understanding crashed through her haze.

Protection. He was being careful. The thought was distant, almost funny-careful, after he'd already torn her underwear and left marks on her skin-but then he was positioning himself against her, and there was no more room for thought.

The first push was pain. Sharp, tearing pain that made Joanna cry out and try to scramble backward on the sheets. He caught her hips, held her still, and pushed again. Deeper. Harder. The pain expanded, became everything, and Joanna felt tears spill from the corners of her eyes, hot tracks sliding into her hair.

He froze.

Joanna felt it in the sudden tension of his body, the way his breath caught and held. He was inside her-she could feel the stretch, the burn, the impossible fullness-but he wasn't moving. His hands on her hips were trembling.

"You're-" He stopped. Started again. His voice was barely recognizable. "This is your first time."

It wasn't a question. Joanna didn't answer. She couldn't. The pain was receding, slowly, replaced by a strange ache that wasn't quite pleasure but was heading in that direction. She shifted her hips experimentally, and they both groaned-the sound tangled together in the dark.

He moved. Just a small withdrawal, a slow push back in. The friction was different now. Less pain. More something else. Joanna's fingers found his shoulders, dug in, and he made a sound that might have been her name or might have been a curse.

"Joanna." He said it again, clearer this time. Like he was memorizing it. "Joanna."

Then he started to move in earnest.

The rhythm he set was relentless. Deep strokes that filled her completely, then withdrew until she was empty, aching, before driving back in. Joanna's body learned his pace, began to meet him, and the ache built into something else. Something that had her nails scoring down his back, her heels digging into the mattress for leverage.

He changed angle. Joanna's spine arched as pleasure-real, sharp, overwhelming pleasure-shot through her for the first time. She cried out, loud and unrestrained, and he made a sound of triumph and did it again. And again. Until she was sobbing with it, with the intensity, with the impossible climb toward something she didn't understand but needed more than her next breath.

When it broke over her, it was like falling and flying at the same time. Joanna's body seized, her inner muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic waves that seemed to go on forever. She heard him curse, felt him swell even larger inside her, and then he was coming too, his hips jerking against hers with a violence that should have hurt but didn't, not anymore, not when she was floating in this place where nothing existed but sensation.

He collapsed on top of her. Heavy. Sweaty. Still inside her. Joanna's arms came up around him without her conscious decision, holding him, and she felt his heart hammering against her chest in time with her own.

The darkness was softer now. The alcohol was winning again, pulling her under. She felt him withdraw, felt the loss and the sudden wetness between her thighs, but she was too tired to be embarrassed. Too tired to do anything but let the darkness take her.

She slept.

---

The light was wrong.

Joanna's eyes squeezed tighter shut, trying to block out the intrusion. Too bright. Too sharp. Manhattan morning sun, streaming through windows that faced east, cutting through her eyelids like blades.

Her head throbbed. Her mouth tasted like cotton and regret. She tried to roll over, to bury her face in the pillow, but something was wrong. The pillow was too firm. The sheets were too smooth. They smelled like cedar and sex and a stranger.

Memory crashed into her with the force of a physical blow.

Joanna's eyes flew open.

She was in a bed she didn't recognize. White sheets. White walls. A ceiling so high it disappeared into architectural details she couldn't focus on. And beside her-oh God, beside her-a man.

She saw his back first. Broad shoulders. Tanned skin. Dark hair that was mussed from sleep and her own fingers. The sheet was pulled low on his hips, revealing the curve of his spine, the dimples above his ass, and-

Scratches.

Four parallel lines, red and raised, scoring down his left shoulder blade. Fresh. Deep enough to have broken skin in places.

Joanna's hand flew to her mouth. She remembered. The pain, the pleasure, the way she'd clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a spinning world. She remembered the sounds she'd made, the things she'd let him do, the way she'd begged-

Her stomach heaved.

She was naked. The realization hit her with a fresh wave of horror. Her dress was somewhere on the floor, a crumpled heap of red silk. Her underwear was-she didn't want to think about what had happened to her underwear. She was naked in a strange man's bed, in what was clearly a hotel suite that cost more than her annual rent, and she had no memory of how she'd gotten here beyond the fragments that made her want to die.

Joanna moved. Slowly. Carefully. Every muscle in her body protested, but the pain between her legs was the worst. A deep, throbbing ache that reminded her with every heartbeat exactly what she'd done.

She sat up. The sheet slipped down to her waist, and she grabbed it, clutching it to her chest like armor. The movement made the man beside her shift. His hand-the same hand that had been inside her, that had held her down, that had learned her body better than she knew it herself-twitched on the pillow.

Joanna stopped breathing.

She watched his face, terrified, waiting for his eyes to open. For the moment of recognition. The accusations. The awkward morning-after conversation that she had no script for, no experience with, no desire to have.

His eyelashes fluttered. His brow furrowed. But he didn't wake.

Joanna moved faster. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, biting her lip against the scream that wanted to escape when her weight settled on abused muscles. Her feet found the carpet-thick, plush, impossibly soft-and she stood, swaying, one hand pressed to her stomach to hold back the nausea.

Her clothes. She needed her clothes.

She spotted the red dress first, crumpled near the foot of the bed like a crime scene marker. Her bra was tangled in the sheets. Her shoes-one under the nightstand, one near the door. She moved in a crouch, gathering her things, her eyes never leaving the man in the bed.

He was beautiful. That was the worst part. Even in her panic, even with shame burning through her like acid, she could see it. The sharp line of his jaw. The dark stubble on his cheeks. The way his hair fell across his forehead, softening features that were probably devastating when he was awake.

She didn't want to know his name. She couldn't know his name. If she knew his name, this would be real. It would be something that had happened to Joanna Santana, twenty-three years old, gallery assistant, responsible, careful, the girl who had never done anything reckless in her life.

She found her purse near the door. Her phone was inside, dead. Her keys. Her MetroCard. The ordinary objects felt alien in her hands, like they belonged to someone else. Someone who hadn't spent the night being taken apart by a stranger in the dark.

Joanna dressed with shaking hands. The silk of her dress felt obscene against her skin, too smooth, too expensive, too red. She didn't bother with the bra-she couldn't figure out the clasps with her fingers trembling like this. She stepped into her shoes, one then the other, and nearly fell when her ankle protested.

She caught herself on the doorframe. Froze. Looked back.

The bed was visible from here. The white sheets were ruined, twisted, stained with things she didn't want to identify. And in the center of the destruction, the man slept on. His face was turned toward her now, relaxed in a way that made him look younger. Vulnerable.

Joanna's gaze dropped to the bed. To the place where she'd been lying. Where he had been lying.

There was blood.

Not a lot. A smear, really. Dried now, brown against the white cotton. But it was unmistakable. Proof of what she'd given away. What she'd lost.

Her virginity. Her sanity. Her carefully constructed life, built on caution and planning and never, ever taking risks.

Joanna turned away. She couldn't look anymore. Her hand found the door handle, cold metal against her palm, and she pulled. The door opened without a sound-well-oiled hinges, money, everything in this place whispered money-and she slipped through the gap like a thief.

The hallway was empty. Silent. Joanna walked as fast as her injured body would allow, one hand pressed to her stomach, the other gripping her purse like a weapon. She found the elevator, stabbed the button with her thumb, and watched the numbers descend with a desperation that felt like drowning.

Twenty-six. Twenty-five. Twenty-four.

The doors opened. Joanna stumbled inside, punched the button for the lobby, and leaned against the mirrored wall as the elevator began its descent. Her reflection stared back at her-hair tangled, makeup smeared, lips swollen-and she looked away, unable to bear the evidence of her own recklessness.

She had to get home. She had to shower. She had to pretend this had never happened.

The elevator dinged. The doors opened onto the Plaza's famous lobby, all gold and marble and morning light, and Joanna walked through it without seeing any of it. Her eyes were fixed on the revolving doors, on the street beyond, on the yellow taxi that was just pulling up to the curb.

She ran. Or tried to-her body wouldn't cooperate, so it was more of a hurried limp, a desperate shuffle. She reached the taxi, yanked open the door, and threw herself into the back seat.

"Brooklyn," she gasped. "Please. Just drive."

The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror. His eyes lingered on her disheveled appearance, on the dress that was clearly last night's outfit, on the marks on her neck that she hadn't thought to cover.

"Whatever you say, lady."

The taxi pulled away from the curb. Joanna pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window and watched the Plaza Hotel shrink in the distance, its elegant facade giving no hint of the destruction that had happened twenty-six floors above.

She didn't look back again.

Behind her, in the penthouse suite, the man in the bed stirred. His hand closed on empty sheets, searching, finding nothing but cooling cotton. His eyes opened-gray, sharp, instantly alert-and he sat up in one fluid motion.

The room was empty. The woman was gone.

He looked at the blood on the sheets. At the scratches on his back, stinging now in the morning air. At the red silk bra that had been left behind, tangled in the white sheets like a flag of surrender.

His jaw tightened. His hand closed into a fist, knuckles white with pressure.

"Joanna," he said aloud, testing the name. The only thing she'd given him, gasped into his mouth in the dark. He reached for his phone. Dialed a number from memory. Waited for the answer.

"Alex. I need you to find someone. Her name is Joanna. She was at the gallery opening on the twelfth floor last night. Start there."

The taxi hit a pothole in Brooklyn, and Joanna's teeth clicked together with the impact. Pain shot through her pelvis, sharp and immediate, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She looked away, out the window, at the familiar streets of her neighborhood.

They were wrong. Everything was wrong. The bodega on the corner, the laundromat with its flickering neon sign, the fire escape where Mrs. Chen hung her laundry-they all looked like props in a play she'd already left. Like she'd crossed some invisible line last night, and now she was walking around in a world that looked like hers but wasn't.

"Here okay?" The driver's voice cut through her thoughts.

Joanna looked up. Her building. The brick facade was crumbling in places, the paint on the door peeling, but it was hers. Her sanctuary. The place where she was Joanna Santana, responsible adult, not the girl who woke up in stranger's beds with blood on the sheets.

"Yes. Thank you."

She fumbled for cash, shoved it at him without counting, and practically fell out of the taxi. The morning air was cold against her legs, her dress riding up in ways that made her painfully aware of what she wasn't wearing underneath. She tugged it down, clutched her purse to her chest, and limped toward her door.

The key. Where was her key?

She dumped her purse on the stoop, hands shaking, rifling through receipts and lip balm and the detritus of her ordinary life. Her fingers closed on metal. She pulled it out, tried to fit it in the lock, missed, tried again.

"Joanna?"

The voice came from behind her. From the door that was already opening.

Joanna spun around. Leah stood in the doorway, coffee mug in hand, her dark hair still wet from the shower. Her roommate's eyes traveled over Joanna's appearance with the speed of someone cataloging evidence at a crime scene.

"Where the hell have you been?"

The question was sharp. Accusing. Joanna felt her face heat up, felt the lie forming on her tongue before she could stop it.

"I-at a friend's. Sarah from the gallery. We had wine, and I fell asleep on her couch. My phone died."

The words came out too fast. Too rehearsed. Leah's eyes narrowed.

"Sarah." She said the name like she was tasting it. "The one with the studio in Queens?"

"Yes. Her."

"Your dress is on inside out."

Joanna looked down. The seams of her red silk dress were visible, the tag scratching at the back of her neck. She hadn't noticed. In her panic to escape, she hadn't noticed.

"I was in a hurry. I have to-" She pushed past Leah, into the apartment, heading for the bathroom. "I need to shower. I'm late for work."

"Joanna." Leah's hand closed on her arm. Not hard, but firm enough to stop her. "Your neck."

Joanna's free hand flew to her throat. She felt them then-the raised welts, the tender spots where his teeth had been, where his mouth had marked her. Hickeys. She had hickeys. She was twenty-three years old and she had hickeys like a teenager.

"It's nothing. A rash. Allergic reaction."

"To Sarah's cat?"

"To the wine. I have to go."

She wrenched free, stumbled into the bathroom, and slammed the door. The lock clicked. She leaned against it, breathing hard, and finally let herself look in the mirror.

The woman staring back at her was a stranger.

Her mascara had smeared into raccoon masks under her eyes. Her lipstick was gone, replaced by swollen lips that looked like they'd been kissed raw. And her neck-God, her neck was a roadmap of bruises, purple and red marks that screamed sex, that announced to anyone who looked exactly what she'd been doing.

Joanna turned on the faucet. Splashed cold water on her face. Once. Twice. Three times. It didn't help. She still looked like what she was. A woman who had spent the night being fucked senseless by a man whose name she didn't know.

She stripped off the dress. It fell to the tile floor in a puddle of red silk, and she stepped out of it like she was shedding skin. Her reflection showed her everything she didn't want to see-the marks on her breasts, the fingerprints on her hips, the way her thighs trembled when she tried to stand still.

She turned on the shower. Hot. As hot as she could stand. She stepped under the spray and let it hit her, let it pound against her shoulders and her back and the place between her legs that still ached with every heartbeat.

She scrubbed. Soap. Loofah. More soap. She washed between her legs and her fingers came away with something that wasn't quite blood, something that made her stomach roll. She washed again. And again. Until her skin was pink and raw and she could pretend she was clean.

But she wasn't. She could still feel him. The weight of him. The stretch of him inside her. The way he'd said her name in the dark like it was something precious.

Joanna turned off the water. Stepped out. Wrapped herself in the thin towel that was all their crappy apartment provided.

She had to move. Had to think. Had to figure out what came next.

She dressed in her most ordinary clothes. Jeans. A gray sweater. Underwear that covered everything, cotton and practical. She pulled her hair back in a ponytail, hiding the tangles, and applied concealer to her neck with a hand that still shook.

There. Normal. She looked normal.

Except for her eyes. They were too wide. Too bright. The eyes of someone who had seen something she couldn't unsee.

Joanna grabbed her bag. Her keys. Her phone-she plugged it in for thirty seconds, just enough to get a sliver of battery. She had to get to work. Had to pretend. Had to rebuild her life around the crater that last night had left in its center.

She opened the bathroom door. Leah was waiting in the hallway, arms crossed.

"We need to talk."

"Later. I'm really late."

"Joanna." Leah's voice softened. "Did something happen? Did someone hurt you?"

The question hung in the air. Joanna thought of the blood on the sheets. The scratches on his back. The way she'd begged him for more.

"No," she said. "Nothing happened. I'm fine."

She pushed past her roommate, out the door, down the stairs. The morning air hit her face, cold and clean, and she walked toward the subway with steps that were almost steady.

She was fine. She would be fine. She just had to keep moving.

It wasn't until she was standing on the platform, waiting for the train, that she remembered. The thing she should have thought of first. The thing that made her hand fly to her stomach, pressing against the flat plane through her sweater.

Protection. He'd used protection-she remembered the tear of foil, the moment of pause before he'd pushed inside her. But that was before. Before the second time, or the third, when she'd been half-asleep and he'd been hard against her hip, when she'd reached for him without thinking-

The train roared into the station. Joanna didn't move. She stood frozen on the platform, her mind racing, calculating, terror building in her chest like a physical weight.

She needed a pharmacy. Now.

---

The CVS on Atlantic Avenue was bright. Too bright. Fluorescent lights that made Joanna feel exposed, visible, like every person in the store could look at her and know exactly why she was there.

She found the aisle by memory, not by looking at signs. Family planning. The words were clinical, polite, nothing like the panic that was making her heart race.

She stood in front of the display. So many options. Condoms. Lubricants. Pregnancy tests. And there, on the bottom shelf, behind a plastic security case that required a clerk to unlock it-

Plan B.

Joanna reached for it. Her hand was shaking so badly she knocked over a box of condoms, sent them scattering across the floor. She knelt to pick them up, cheeks burning, and heard footsteps approaching.

"Need help finding something?"

The clerk was young. Maybe twenty. He had a name tag that said BRENDA but he was clearly not Brenda, clearly covering someone's shift, clearly looking at Joanna with the kind of knowing sympathy that made her want to die.

"No. I'm fine. Thank you."

She grabbed the Plan B box-emergency contraceptive, for use within 72 hours, not for regular birth control-and practically ran to the self-checkout. The machine beeped. Demanded an employee override for the locked case.

Brenda-not-Brenda appeared again, key in hand. He unlocked the case, scanned the box, and looked at Joanna with eyes that were trying not to judge.

"These work best if you take them as soon as possible," he said. "There's a water fountain by the bathrooms if you need it."

Joanna shoved her credit card into the machine. Didn't meet his eyes. "I'm fine."

The receipt printed. She grabbed the box, shoved it in her bag, and walked out of the store with steps that were too fast, too desperate. She turned the corner, into the alley behind the building, and ripped open the packaging with fingers that wouldn't cooperate.

One pill. Small. White. Innocuous.

She put it on her tongue. It tasted like nothing. Like chalk. She swallowed dry, felt it catch in her throat, forced it down with a swallow that hurt.

Done. It was done. She was safe.

Joanna leaned against the brick wall, breathing hard. The alley smelled like garbage and exhaust, but she didn't care. She was safe. The pill would work. She wouldn't be pregnant with a stranger's baby, wouldn't have to explain to her mother-God, her mother-wouldn't have to watch her carefully constructed life crumble into something unrecognizable.

She pushed off the wall. Took a step toward the street.

Pain.

It hit her low in her abdomen, sharp and cramping, like the worst period she'd ever had concentrated into a single moment. Joanna doubled over, gasping, her hand flying to her stomach. The wall was there, cold brick against her palm, and she leaned into it, breathing through her mouth, waiting for it to pass.

It didn't pass. The pain ebbed, then surged again, worse this time, radiating down her thighs, up into her lower back. She felt wetness between her legs-not blood, not yet, but something that made her panic spike all over again.

She needed a doctor. She couldn't go to her regular clinic, couldn't explain this to Dr. Patterson who'd known her since she was sixteen. She needed somewhere anonymous. Somewhere no one knew her history. A private clinic on the Upper East Side felt like another world, so far removed from her own that it might as well be anonymous. And her insurance, thank God, would cover it.

Joanna pulled out her phone. The battery was dying, but she had enough to search. Private clinic. Upper East Side. Gynecology. Same-day appointments.

The first result was a name she didn't recognize. Marion Evans, MD. Upper East Side Women's Health. The website showed photos of a waiting room that looked like a luxury hotel lobby, all velvet and marble and soft lighting.

Joanna clicked the appointment button. Selected the first available slot. Entered her insurance information-thank God for the gallery's mediocre but functional health plan-and received a confirmation text.

Eleven-thirty. Two hours from now.

She could make it. She had to make it.

Joanna straightened. The pain was still there, a dull throb now, manageable. She walked toward the subway with one hand pressed to her stomach, trying to look normal, trying to be normal.

Behind her, in the penthouse of the Plaza Hotel, Cain Reed stood naked in front of the shattered mirror of his bathroom. Blood dripped from his knuckles, mixing with the water from the faucet, swirling down the drain in patterns that looked like abstract art.

He didn't feel the pain. He was too focused on the image in his mind. The girl. The way she'd felt. The way she'd run.

His phone was on the counter. Alex's voice came through the speaker, professional, apologetic.

"We have her name, sir. Joanna Santana. But the corridor cameras were down for maintenance last night. We have no footage of her departure."

Cain's jaw tightened. He picked up a shard of mirror, watched his own reflection fracture into a dozen pieces.

"She just took Plan B at a CVS on Atlantic Avenue and is now in agonizing pain. She's looking for a doctor. My mother's clinic, Upper East Side Women's Health, has an opening at eleven-thirty. Make sure she's the one who gets it."

The Upper East Side Women's Health clinic was exactly what the website promised. Joanna stepped through the glass doors and into a world of hushed voices and expensive perfume. The waiting room was empty except for a woman in the corner, her face hidden behind a copy of Vogue, her handbag-a Birkin, Joanna's brain supplied automatically, probably worth more than Joanna made in a year-resting on the seat beside her like a guard dog.

Joanna approached the desk. The receptionist looked up with a smile that was practiced, professional, and somehow still warm.

"Joanna Santana? I see you're here for an urgent consultation. Dr. Evans is running slightly behind, but it shouldn't be more than a few minutes."

Joanna nodded. Her mouth was dry. She'd taken a taxi-couldn't face the subway, not with the pain ebbing and flowing like a tide she couldn't control-and now her last sixty dollars were gone, spent on a ride that had taken her further from her life with every block.

She sat on one of the velvet chairs. It was too soft, too enveloping. It made her feel small. The woman with the Birkin didn't look up from her magazine.

The minutes ticked by. Joanna checked her phone-dead now, completely, the screen black and unresponsive. She checked the clock on the wall. Eleven-forty. Eleven-fifty.

The pain came back, sharper this time, and she pressed her hand to her stomach, trying to breathe through it. The receptionist noticed. Her smile flickered.

"Dr. Evans will be right with you, Ms. Santana. Can I get you water?"

"No. Thank you."

Twelve o'clock. The door to the inner offices opened, and a woman emerged-tall, silver-haired, elegant in a way that made Joanna feel even more out of place. Dr. Evans, presumably. She was on her phone, frowning, speaking in rapid, clipped tones.

"I don't care what the board says, I'm a physician, not a-" She stopped. Looked at Joanna. Her expression softened, slightly. "Yes. Fine. I'll be there by two. But this is the last time."

She ended the call. Turned to the receptionist. "Maya, I have to run to the hospital. Emergency consult. Can you reschedule my afternoon?"

"Of course, Dr. Evans. But Ms. Santana is here for an urgent-"

Dr. Evans looked at Joanna again. Her eyes were sharp, assessing, the kind of eyes that missed nothing. "Yes. I see. Well, I'm afraid you'll have to reschedule, Ms.-"

"Santana." Joanna stood. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her pelvis, and she swayed. "Please. I really need to be seen today. I can wait. However long it takes."

Dr. Evans's expression softened further. She was kind, Joanna realized. The kind of doctor who had gone into women's health because she actually cared about women. It made Joanna want to cry.

"I'm sorry. This is a genuine emergency. But-" She paused. Looked toward the inner offices. "My son is here. He's not a gynecologist, but he's a physician. Board certified. He did his residency in emergency medicine before changing careers. He can at least perform an initial assessment. And I'll review the results personally when I return."

Joanna's stomach dropped. "Your son?"

"Dr. Cain Reed. He's-" Dr. Evans's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, frowned. "He's finishing up some paperwork. Maya will show you back in five minutes."

She was gone before Joanna could protest, swept out the door in a cloud of expensive scent and professional urgency.

Joanna sat back down. Her hands were shaking. A male doctor. She hadn't thought-she'd assumed, with a women's health clinic, with Dr. Marion Evans-

But she was in pain. She was scared. And she couldn't afford to go somewhere else, to start this process over, to explain to another receptionist why she needed to be seen urgently.

Five minutes. She could do this. It was medicine. Clinical. Professional. It didn't matter that he was a man.

The door opened again. Maya, the receptionist, smiled at her. "Ms. Santana? Dr. Reed will see you now."

Joanna followed her down a hallway lined with framed diplomas and soft watercolor paintings. The examination rooms were at the end, doors closed, names on plaques. Maya stopped at the last one.

"Change into the gown, please. The opening goes in the back. Dr. Reed will be in shortly."

She left. Joanna was alone.

The room was warm. Too warm. She looked at the examination table with its paper covering, the stirrups folded against its sides, the lamp mounted on the wall. She'd been in rooms like this before. Annual exams. Pap smears. The clinical indignity of spreading her legs for a stranger while making small talk about the weather.

But never like this. Never with the memory of last night still raw in her body, still aching with every step.

Joanna undressed. Folded her jeans and sweater neatly on the chair-habit, always neat, always organized-and pulled on the blue paper gown. It crinkled when she moved. It didn't cover enough. Her ass was cold against the paper sheet as she climbed onto the table, as she lay back and put her feet in the stirrups.

The position was vulnerable. Exposed. She stared at the ceiling, counting the tiles, trying not to think about what was coming.

Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Male. Not the quick, efficient tap of nurse's shoes.

The door opened.

"Ms. Santana."

The voice stopped her heart.

It was low. Controlled. Familiar in a way that made every hair on her body stand up. Joanna's head snapped toward the door, and she saw him-

White coat. Stethoscope. Dark hair that was slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it. Gray eyes that locked onto hers with the intensity of a predator spotting prey.

It was him.

The man from last night. The stranger. The voice in the dark that had said her name like a prayer and a curse.

Joanna's mouth opened. No sound came out. Her brain was screaming, run, hide, this isn't happening, but her body was frozen, pinned to the examination table by the weight of his gaze.

He stepped into the room. Closed the door behind him. The click of the latch was loud in the silence.

"Lie back, please." His voice was professional. Detached. Nothing like the rough growl she remembered from the dark. "I need to complete the examination."

Joanna didn't move. Couldn't move. "You-" Her voice was a whisper. "You're not-"

"Dr. Cain Reed." He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, the snap of elastic against skin making her flinch. "At your service."

He approached the table. Joanna tried to sit up, to cover herself, but her arms wouldn't cooperate. He was between her legs in three strides, his height putting him in a position to see everything-the paper gown rucked up around her hips, her knees trembling in the stirrups, the most private parts of her exposed to his clinical, terrifying gaze.

"Your chart says you're experiencing pain." He picked up her file, scanned it with eyes that gave nothing away. "Post-coital tearing. Severe enough to warrant urgent consultation."

Joanna felt her face burn. She wanted to die. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. She wanted-

"Look at me."

The command was soft. Unmistakable. Joanna's eyes found his despite every instinct screaming at her to look away.

"You ran." He said it like a diagnosis. Like he was commenting on a symptom. "This morning. From my bed. Without a word."

"I-" Joanna's voice cracked. "I didn't know-this isn't-"

"Isn't what?" He set down the chart. His gloved hands found her knees, pressed them wider in the stirrups. "Isn't appropriate? We passed appropriate twelve hours ago, wouldn't you say?"

The light clicked on. Bright, clinical, illuminating everything. Joanna squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, I can't-"

"You can." His voice was closer now. She felt his breath against her inner thigh, hot through the latex of his gloves. "And you will. Because I'm the only one who knows exactly where it hurts, aren't I?"

His fingers touched her. Not inside, not yet, just a gentle pressure against the swollen, tender flesh that made her gasp and arch away from the contact.

"Sensitive," he murmured. "As I suspected."

Joanna's hands found the edges of the examination table, gripped until her knuckles turned white. "You're not-your mother said-you're not even a gynecologist."

"No." The admission came without shame. "I'm an investor. A businessman. But I am a physician, Ms. Santana. And more importantly-" His fingers pressed deeper, finding the exact spot where she ached, where she burned. "I'm the man who did this to you. Which makes me uniquely qualified to treat it."

Joanna's sob escaped before she could stop it. Humiliation and something else-something traitorous that responded to his touch despite everything-warred in her chest.

"Why?" she managed. "Why are you doing this?"

She felt him shift. Felt the heat of his body closer, closer, until his mouth was against her ear and his words were for her alone.

"Because you ran." A whisper. A promise. "And I don't like losing what's mine."