Rain blurred Manhattan's skyline as Clara shrugged on her trench coat. Sophia beamed, swinging her tote. "Rumor says Hartwell left before six! Miracle! Celebrate with Bergdorf's?"
Clara forced a smile. "Raincheck? Family dinner." The lie tasted like ash. Mrs. Windsor's text pulsed in her memory: "Cook made your favorite coq au vin." Favors for the charity case, Clara thought bitterly.
But Windsor Trust had managed her inheritance since the plane crash. Obligation chained her tighter than Sebastian's Burberry tie.
First stop: Manhattan General. The cramps had worsened to knife-twists.
Gynecology Exam Room 3 smelled of antiseptic and judgment. Dr. Vargas snapped latex gloves. "Vaseline-based ointment. Apply twice daily where it hurts." She eyed Clara's death-grip on the exam table.
"Protective measures exist for a reason. Or was brute force the objective?"
Heat scorched Clara's neck. "I'll… be more careful."
"Careful?" The doctor's laugh was ice cracking. "Tell him to stop treating you like a crash test dummy."
Clara fled clutching the prescription. Tell Sebastian Hartwell? Might as well petition a hurricane.
"Clara Morgan?"
She froze. Lucian Rhodes leaned against the nurses' station, Armani coat draped over scrubs. Hartwell's most dangerously charming friend—and Manhattan General's cardiac prodigy. His family's pharmaceutical empire funded the east wing.
"Lucian." She clutched the ointment tube like contraband. "Visiting patients?"
"Escaping them." His smile didn't reach hunter-green eyes. "You look… unwell."
Trapped in gynecology with the playboy prince. "Migraine. Just grabbing meds."
"Sebastian's at Nyx with Kingsley." He stepped closer, noting her white-knuckled grip. "Should I tell him you're here?"
Panic spiked. "No! Just… tell him I'll finalize the Tokyo report tonight." She bolted toward elevators.
Lucian watched her vanish, then shouldered into Dr. Vargas' office. "What did Hartwell's prize secretary really need?"
Vargas sighed. "Pelvic trauma requiring topical treatment. Some men shouldn't own pets, let alone lovers."
Lucian's coffee almost spilled. Sebastian? The human glacier?
Nyx Lounge swam in amethyst light and Dior Savage. Kingsley Shaw nursed Macallan 25, watching Sebastian dissect an olive with surgical precision. "Bianca Sterling's shares just nosedived 37%. You're wasted in finance—try terrorism."
Sebastian didn't smile. The NYSE ticker reflected in his pupils like prisoner tallies. Where is she? The question had gnawed him since Lucian's text: Saw your scared rabbit at General.
Lucian slid into the booth, reeking of intrigue. "So. Your porcelain doll."
Sebastian's knife stilled. "Speak."
"Manhattan General's gynecology wing has fascinating gossip." Lucian swirled his bourbon. "Seems Clara's… overexerted."
Kingsley choked. "Christ, Rhodes. Is nothing sacred?"
"Uterine spasms." Lucian leaned in, lowering his voice. "Tissue micro-tears. Our virgin secretary wasn't just playing hard to get—she got broken."
A glass shattered. Blood-red Cabernet bled across white leather as Sebastian's goblet exploded in his fist. Kingsley groaned—that bottle cost more than his Porsche.
Lucian froze, martini olive skewered on his toothpick. "No fucking way. You did that?"
Sebastian rose, shards glittering on his Brunello Cucinelli blazer like poisoned diamonds. The memory detonated: Clara's nails carving half-moons into his back as she wept "Stop, please—" The slick heat of her innocence staining his sheets. His doing.
Kingsley caught his arm. "Sit. I'll get towels—"
"Penthouse suite." Sebastian's voice scraped raw. "Send someone up. Now."
Lucian's jaw unhinged. "You're requesting… company?"
Kingsley's eyes narrowed. He'd seen this before—Sebastian purging human weakness with transactional fire. "Blonde? Brunette?"
"Just clean." Sebastian strode toward the exit, Nyx's pulse throbbing in his temples.
As he vanished, Lucian exhaled. "Did Hartwell just request a human being?"
Kingsley signaled a waiter. "Bring Elise to the Sovereign Suite. Tell her… wear black."
Rain needled Clara's face outside the Windsors' Fifth Avenue townhouse. Ethan's vintage Mustang sat in the drive—his shrine to arrested development.
Inside, the air choked on Mrs. Windsor's Chanel No. 5 and unspoken pity. "Clara, darling! You're skinner." She air-kissed cheeks Clara knew she'd recoil from if touched.
Ethan lounged at the dining table, texting. "Look what the cat didn't bother dragging in."
Clara ignored him, focusing on the Vermeer forgery over the mantel. Perfect fakes everywhere.
Mr. Windsor carved the chicken with fiscal precision. "Heard you witnessed Bianca Sterling's implosion. Hartwell's executing her family's company."
Ethan's fork clattered. "You saw Bianca?" Jealousy roughened his voice. Still hooked, Clara realized.
"Briefly." She speared a green bean. "Mr. Hartwell handled it."
"Handled?" Ethan sneered. "Meaning he fucked her or fired her?"
"Ethan!" Mrs. Windsor's napkin fluttered. "Clara's his secretary."
"Exactly." His smirk aimed at Clara like a dart. "Bet you know which flavors his condoms come in."
Clara's scalp prickled. He knows. The way his eyes raked her turtleneck—did Bianca tell him?
"You're excused." Mr. Windsor's voice could freeze assets.
In the powder room, Clara gripped the sink. Ethan's laughter bled through the door. "She cried when I fucked Bianca in her bed—pathetic."
Her phone buzzed:
Lucian Rhodes: General's ointment working? Tell Seb he owes me SoHo retail space.
Kingsley Shaw: Nyx's carpet may never recover. What did you do to him?
Clara deleted both. Outside, rain sheeted the windows like cell bars.
At the service entrance, Ethan blocked her path. "Bianca called. Said Hartwell broke you like a toy." His breath reeked of Bordeaux and malice. "Guess some things never change—you still beg for scraps."
Clara drove her stiletto into his instep.
His yowl chased her into the downpour. In the taxi, she finally opened the ointment.
The crash test dummy, Dr. Vargas had said. Clara touched the tube to her bruised cheek, then lower, to the deeper wounds.
Hartwell Tower speared the thunderheads ahead. Sebastian's penthouse glowed like a warning beacon.
What's he breaking tonight? she wondered. And why did the thought make her pulse stutter?