The impact knocked the wind out of her. Kenan hit her with the force of a linebacker, his momentum carrying them both into the marble wall next to the door. Imogene's head snapped back, stars exploding in her vision.

His hands were on her shoulders instantly. His grip was bruising, his fingers digging into her trapezius muscles like iron claws. He wasn't trying to strangle her, not yet, but he was holding her in place with a strength that felt unnatural.

"Make it stop," he groaned, leaning his weight onto her.

Imogene gasped for air. The silver knife slipped from her sleeve. It hit the carpet with a dull thud, useless. She couldn't reach it. She couldn't move.

"Mr. Cervantes," she choked out. "You're hurting me."

He didn't hear her. He was shaking, a violent tremor running through his massive frame. Imogene turned her face away as his head dropped to her shoulder. She expected the smell of bourbon, the sour reek of a bender.

Instead, she smelled peppermint and copper.

Blood. And something sterile.

Her fear spiked, then plateaued into a cold, hard clarity. This was the switch. The "Saint" taking over. She stopped struggling against his weight and started analyzing the data.

His skin was burning hot through his shirt. Fever. High grade. The tremors were rhythmic, clonic. His pupils were dilated not from drugs, but from sympathetic nervous system overload.

He wasn't attacking her. He was crashing.

"Neuro-storm," she whispered. The rumors about his experimental chips were true.

Kenan groaned again, his head thrashing against her shoulder. He pulled back, his eyes wild. He looked at her neck, his teeth bared. It was a primal reaction, the brain stem taking over the cortex. Fight or flight. He was choosing fight.

He opened his mouth, moving toward her throat.

Imogene didn't think. She freed her right arm from between their bodies. She swung her hand and slapped him across the face.

The sound was sharp, like a pistol crack in the quiet room.

Kenan's head snapped to the side. He froze. The shock interrupted the feedback loop in his brain for a fraction of a second.

"Breathe!" Imogene commanded. Her voice wasn't the waitress's anymore. It was the surgeon's. "Look at me!"

Kenan blinked. He looked at her. For the first time, the red haze in his eyes seemed to clear slightly. He saw the glasses, the fear, but also the steel behind them.

Imogene didn't wait. She jammed her thumb and forefinger into the pressure points at the base of his skull, right behind the ears. She pressed hard, finding the occipital nerves.

"Focus on the pain," she ordered. "Ground yourself."

Kenan let out a shuddering breath. The overwhelming noise in his head-the static, the screaming data-began to recede, replaced by the sharp, physical sensation of her fingers. It was an anchor.

His grip on her shoulders loosened. His knees buckled.

Imogene caught him, or tried to. He was too heavy. They slid down the wall together, landing in a heap on the expensive carpet. Kenan ended up on his knees, his forehead resting against her stomach. He was panting, but the aggression was gone.

"Who..." he mumbled.

"Shh." Imogene moved her hands to his temples, beginning a rhythmic massage. She knew the anatomy of the cranial nerves better than she knew the streets of New York. "Don't talk. Just process."

The room was freezing, but Kenan was radiating heat like a furnace. Imogene shivered, her thin uniform offering no protection against the chill or the man.

Kenan's hands, which had been hurting her moments ago, now sought purchase. He wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face in the coarse fabric of her apron. He held on as if letting go would mean falling off the edge of the earth.

It was intimate. It was terrifyingly intimate.

Imogene looked down at the top of his dark head. She should push him away. She should find a way to override the door. But his heart was hammering against her ribs, syncing with hers.

"Stop the noise," he whispered again, his voice slurring into sleep.

Imogene began to hum. It was a tune she used to hear in the orphanages in Eastern Europe, a lullaby with no words. The vibration of her chest seemed to soothe him.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. The tension slowly drained from Kenan's body. His breathing deepened. The weight against her became dead weight.

He was out.

Imogene carefully peeled his arms from her waist. Her hands were shaking now that the adrenaline was fading. She grabbed his arm and pulled. He was solid muscle. It took everything she had to drag him three feet to the low leather sofa. She hoisted his upper body onto the cushions.

She collapsed on the floor next to him, hugging her knees. Her shoulder throbbed where he had grabbed her. Her cheek stung where his stubble had scraped her.

She looked at the man who ruled the tech world. He looked like a boy now, vulnerable and broken.

She reached out and checked his pulse one last time. Steady.

"You owe me a tip," she whispered to the unconscious billionaire.

Imogene tried to stand, but a tug at her waist stopped her. Kenan's hand had found the hem of her uniform jacket in his sleep. His fingers were tangled in the fabric, a death grip that refused to yield.

She sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. She tried to pry his fingers loose, one by one. As soon as she lifted his index finger, his pinky clamped down harder. He made a sound of distress in his throat, his brow furrowing.

"Okay," she whispered. "Okay, I'm not leaving."

She sat back down on the carpet. The floor was hard, and the cold seeped through her pants. She rested her head against the side of the sofa, near his hip. She watched the city lights flicker and die as the night wore on.

Sometime around 3:00 AM, the dynamic changed.

Kenan shifted. The fever was spiking again, a secondary reaction to the neural reset. He groaned, turning onto his side, facing her. His hand moved from her hem to her arm, pulling.

"Cold," he muttered.

Before Imogene could react, he hauled her up. She tumbled onto the sofa, landing awkwardly against his chest. He was a furnace, and he sought her coolness like a heat-seeking missile.

"Wait," Imogene gasped, trying to push against his chest. "Mr. Cervantes, wake up."

He didn't wake up. He operated on instinct. His arms locked around her, trapping her against him. His face buried itself in the crook of her neck. His lips were hot and dry.

He kissed the sensitive skin below her ear. Imogene froze. It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was desperate. It was a drowning man breathing air.

"Please," she whispered, her voice trembling.

He shifted, his mouth finding hers. The kiss was clumsy, heavy, and tasting of iron. Imogene's mind went blank. For a second, just a second, she stopped fighting. The sheer human need radiating from him was overwhelming. It called to the broken parts of her own soul.

Then, the reality crashed back in. If she was found like this-in the arms of Kenan Cervantes, the man Clair was trying to secure a merger with-she would be destroyed. Clair would spin it. Imogene would be the whore, the seductress, the stain on the family name.

She pushed him. Hard.

He groaned, rolling onto his back, his arm falling over his eyes. He didn't wake. The surge had passed.

Imogene scrambled off the sofa. She backed away, her chest heaving. She touched her lips. They felt bruised.

She looked at the window. The sky was turning a bruised purple. Dawn.

Panic set in. The morning staff would arrive soon. The chef. The personal assistants.

She looked down at herself. Her uniform was twisted. A button was missing from the front, likely torn off when he pulled her onto the sofa. She scanned the floor. The small black plastic disc was gone, swallowed by the deep pile of the carpet.

She didn't have time to find it.

She grabbed the silver tray. She picked up the knife from where it had fallen. She wiped the handle on her apron, erasing her prints. She placed it back on the tray.

She ran to the door. The red light on the panel had turned green. The system, detecting Kenan's vitals had stabilized into a deep sleep pattern, had disengaged the lockdown. A failsafe he must have programmed himself.

Imogene pushed the door open. She didn't look back. She took her shoes off, holding them in her hand to silence her footsteps. She sprinted down the hallway to the service elevator.

The ride down felt like a descent into hell.

When the doors opened in the basement, she bolted for the locker room. It was empty. She stripped off the uniform, her hands shaking so badly she nearly ripped the zipper. She shoved the clothes into the laundry bag, pushing them deep to the bottom.

She pulled on her own clothes-a gray hoodie that had seen better days and jeans with a hole in the knee. She splashed cold water on her face in the sink, scrubbing her lips until they were raw.

She looked in the mirror. There was a red mark on her neck. A hickey. Or a bruise.

"Stupid," she hissed at her reflection.

She pulled the hood up, cinching it tight. She slipped out the back door of the club just as the garbage trucks were rolling into the alley. The noise of the compactor covered the sound of her escape.

She walked fast, head down, blending into the gray morning. She was just another shadow in the city. But she knew, with a sinking feeling in her gut, that she had left something behind in that penthouse. And she wasn't talking about the button.

Marcus stood in the doorway of the penthouse suite at 7:00 AM sharp. He held a tablet in one hand and a medical kit in the other. Behind him, two private security officers waited like statues.

"Mr. Cervantes?" Marcus called out.

The door was unlocked. That was the first bad sign.

Marcus stepped inside. The room smelled of sweat and something metallic. He scanned the area. The sculpture was knocked over. A bottle of Macallan sat unopened on the console table.

Kenan was sitting on the edge of the sofa. He was shirtless, his head in his hands.

"Sir?" Marcus approached cautiously.

Kenan looked up. He looked like he had gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight. His eyes were clearer than they had been in weeks, but there was a deep confusion in them.

"What happened?" Kenan asked. His voice was gravel.

"The system registered a lockdown at 11:42 PM," Marcus said, checking the tablet. "A bio-threat protocol you designed. It sealed the unit but blocked all external alerts, just as you programmed it to. It cleared at 4:15 AM."

Kenan rubbed his neck. He winced. "I remember... noise. Then silence. Someone was here."

He looked at his hands. He remembered holding on to something. Someone. He remembered a voice, sharp and commanding. Look at me. And he remembered a scent. Not perfume. Something clean. Like rain.

He looked at the sofa cushion. Wedged in the seam was a single, long strand of dark hair.

He picked it up.

"A woman," Kenan said. The memory was fragmented, hazy, like a dream recorded on a damaged tape. But the physical sensation of peace-that was real.

"A woman?" Marcus stiffened. "An assassin?"

"No," Kenan said. "She... fixed me." He dropped the hair. His face hardened. "Find her. Pay her. Silence her."

He couldn't afford a scandal. Not with the board breathing down his neck. If word got out that he had a breakdown and some random woman saw it, the IPO would tank.

"Understood," Marcus said. He turned on his heel.

Marcus walked out into the hallway. He pulled up the security feed on his tablet. Corrupted. The loop from last night was static. The storm in Kenan's brain had interfered with the local electronics. The elevator logs showed a temporary service keycard override, but no name was attached.

"Damn it," Marcus muttered.

He walked toward the elevator. As he turned the corner, he saw movement.

A girl in a black uniform was skulking near the service elevator. She was holding a trash bag, but she was looking at the penthouse door with wide, greedy eyes.

It was Tiffany. She had come up to scavenge empty bottles to return for the deposit, a petty theft she committed regularly.

Marcus stopped. He looked at her. Same uniform. Same height. Dark hair. She was on the floor where she shouldn't be. He knew, logically, it probably wasn't her. The woman Kenan described sounded competent, calm. This girl looked like a scavenger. But right now, he didn't need the truth. He needed a solution. A neat, controllable narrative to close this security breach before the board got wind of it.

"You," Marcus said.

Tiffany jumped. She dropped the bag. Glass clinked. "I... I was just cleaning, sir."

Marcus walked up to her. He loomed over her. "You were in the suite last night."

It wasn't a question.

Tiffany blinked. Her mind raced. She saw the expensive suit. She saw the serious expression. She knew she was in trouble for stealing bottles. "I..."

"Mr. Cervantes is very grateful for your... assistance," Marcus said, his voice devoid of emotion. He tapped his tablet. "But discretion is paramount."

He turned the screen to her. It was a digital Non-Disclosure Agreement. And a payment authorization form.

Tiffany looked at the number at the bottom.

$200,000.

Her breath hitched. That was more money than she would make in five years.

"Sign it," Marcus said. "This closes the loop. It makes the problem go away. For both of us. And never speak of what happened. To anyone."

Tiffany didn't know what happened. She hadn't been there. But she looked at the money. She looked at Marcus, who clearly wanted this problem solved instantly.

If she said no, she got fired for stealing bottles. If she said yes...

She reached out with a trembling finger. She signed Tiffany Miller.

"Good," Marcus said. He tapped a button. "Funds are transferred. If you approach Mr. Cervantes, or the press, we will destroy you. Legally and financially."

"I won't," Tiffany squeaked. "I promise."

Marcus walked away, satisfied. Problem solved. A cheap, convenient lie to cauterize a dangerous wound.

Inside the suite, Kenan stood under the scalding spray of the shower. He scrubbed his skin, trying to remember. The tactile memory of the woman was fading, replaced by the cold logic of survival.

Marcus had messaged him: Handled. Waitress. Paid off.

Kenan closed his eyes. A waitress. Just a greedy employee who saw a rich man vulnerable. The peace he had felt was probably just a chemical reaction, a side effect of the crash.

He turned the water off. He stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist. He looked in the mirror. The man looking back was the CEO again. Cold. Efficient. Alone.