The heavy mahogany doors swung open. Elie stepped into the room. Her bare arms were covered in goosebumps. Her toes throbbed in the tight heels. Her movements were stiff, mechanical.

The VIP suite was massive. The lights were dimmed to a sultry, dark amber. The air was thick and heavy, suffocating her with the smell of expensive cigars, spilled alcohol, and cheap, overpowering perfume.

Davin pulled the doors shut behind her. The soft click of the lock engaging severed her last connection to the outside world.

Elie's eyes scanned the room. In the center sat a massive, U-shaped leather sofa.

Right in the middle of the sofa sat Mortimer Finch. He was a heavily overweight man with thinning hair and a flushed, sweaty face.

But what made the blood freeze in Elie's veins was the man sitting on the single armchair to the right.

Ebert Ewing.

He was already there. He held a martini glass in his hand, his legs crossed, his expression completely bored and detached.

Mortimer's eyes snapped toward the door. His gaze locked onto Elie. His eyes crawled over the thin red silk clinging to her curves, lingering on the expanse of her bare skin. It was the look of a starving predator.

Then, Mortimer's eyes landed on her neck. He saw the angry, purple-red hickey.

Mortimer's thick eyebrows shot up. A greasy, highly suggestive smile spread across his face.

"Mr. Ewing," Mortimer laughed loudly, his voice grating. "The 'gift' you brought me is absolutely exquisite. And the packaging... very kinky. I like it."

Ebert slowly swirled the clear liquid in his martini glass. He didn't even look at Elie.

"As long as Mr. Finch is pleased," Ebert said, his voice flat and businesslike. "I trust the Series C funding will proceed without any further delays."

Hearing herself being traded like a piece of meat for a corporate funding round made Elie's stomach violently cramp. She felt physically sick. Her fingernails dug deeper into the bleeding crescents in her palms.

Mortimer patted the empty leather cushion right next to his thick thigh.

"Come here, sweetheart. Sit next to me," Mortimer commanded, his voice dripping with lust.

Elie's legs felt like they were made of lead. She couldn't move. She turned her head and looked at Ebert. Her eyes were wide, silently begging him. Please. Don't do this.

Ebert took a slow sip of his martini. He deliberately looked away, staring at the wall. He completely ignored her plea.

The last shred of hope died inside Elie. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. She forced her leaden legs to move. She walked over and sat down stiffly on the very edge of the cushion next to Mortimer.

The second she sat down, Mortimer's large, sweaty hand clamped down heavily onto her bare thigh.

Elie flinched violently. She instinctively jerked her body away from him.

But Mortimer's other arm shot out, wrapping around her narrow waist. He yanked her hard against his side, pinning her against his bulky body.

The overpowering stench of his cologne mixed with the smell of stale alcohol and bad breath hit Elie's face. She held her breath, fighting the intense, physical urge to vomit.

Sitting across from them, Ebert watched Mortimer's arm wrap around Elie's waist. The fingers holding his martini glass tightened abruptly. His knuckles turned stark white against the crystal.

But his face remained a perfect, frozen mask of indifference. He made no move to stop it.

Mortimer picked up a glass filled to the brim with straight, high-proof vodka from the table. He shoved it directly against Elie's lips.

"Drink it," Mortimer ordered.

Elie turned her head away, pressing her lips tightly together. "I... I don't drink," she managed to say.

Mortimer's greasy smile vanished. He grabbed her chin roughly, his thick fingers digging into her jawbone.

"If you don't drink, you're disrespecting Mr. Ewing," Mortimer threatened.

Elie's eyes darted to Ebert.

Ebert stared at her with dead eyes. "Drink it," he commanded coldly.

Those two words were the final blow. They shattered whatever was left of her soul. A look of absolute, dead resignation washed over her eyes.

Elie took the glass from Mortimer's hand. She tilted her head back and downed the entire glass of straight vodka in one go.

The liquid was like liquid fire. It burned a path down her throat and exploded in her empty stomach.

Elie immediately began to cough violently. The harsh coughing racked her small frame. Tears sprang to her eyes, turning the edges of her eyes a painful, bright red.

Mortimer threw his head back and laughed. Taking advantage of her coughing fit, he slid his sweaty hand higher up her thigh, his fingers moving dangerously close to the edge of the silk dress.

Elie's body shook like a leaf in a hurricane. She slammed her hand down, grabbing Mortimer's thick wrist to stop his hand. She was panting heavily.

She forced her head up. Her eyes were bloodshot and watering.

"Excuse me," she choked out, her voice raspy and broken. "I need to use the restroom."

Elie violently shoved Mortimer's hand off her leg. She scrambled up from the deep leather sofa, her movements frantic and uncoordinated.

Because she stood up too fast, the high-proof vodka hit her brain instantly. The room spun. Her ankle gave out in the oversized heel, and she stumbled forward, nearly crashing into the glass coffee table.

Mortimer's face darkened. He scowled, opening his mouth to yell at her.

"Women are always so much trouble," Ebert's voice cut through the tension. It was smooth, cold, and dripping with disdain. "Forgive her lack of manners, Mr. Finch."

Hearing Ebert apologize for her as if she were a misbehaving pet made Elie's spine lock up. She didn't look back. She practically ran toward the back of the massive suite, searching for the bathroom.

She found the heavy, frosted-glass door. She shoved it open, threw herself inside, and slammed the door shut. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the lock until she heard the heavy thunk of the deadbolt sliding into place.

The bathroom was dead silent. The faint, mechanical hum of the exhaust fan was the only sound. The heavy door completely blocked out the thumping bass of the club music outside.

Elie lunged toward the marble vanity. She gripped the edge of the cold stone counter so hard her fingernails bent.

The violent nausea she had been fighting finally won. She leaned over the porcelain sink and began to dry heave uncontrollably.

Her stomach cramped with agonizing force. Because she hadn't eaten anything all day, there was nothing to throw up. She only gagged up bitter stomach acid and the burning taste of the vodka.

The violent spasms wracked her chest. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the snot running from her nose. She looked utterly pathetic.

After several minutes, the spasms slowly subsided. Elie felt completely drained, her legs shaking weakly.

She reached out and turned the brass faucet. Freezing cold water rushed out.

She cupped her hands and splashed the icy water onto her face. She splashed it onto her neck, scrubbing her skin frantically, trying to wash away the disgusting feeling of Mortimer's sweaty hand on her thigh.

The cold water dripped from her chin, falling onto the red silk dress and blooming into dark, wet stains.

Elie slowly raised her head. She looked at her reflection in the massive, brightly lit mirror.

Her hair was a tangled mess. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen. Her face was ashen.

Her gaze dropped to her neck. The dark, purple-red hickey Ebert had left was glaringly obvious against her pale skin.

A surge of pure, unadulterated hatred flashed in her eyes.

She grabbed a rough paper towel from the dispenser. She pressed it against the hickey and scrubbed. She rubbed the paper towel back and forth with brutal force. She scrubbed until the delicate skin on her neck turned bright red, until it felt raw and started to peel.

But the bruise remained.

Elie dropped the paper towel. Her knees buckled. She slid down the tiled wall and collapsed onto the freezing bathroom floor. She pulled her knees to her chest and buried her face in her arms.

She cried silently. Her shoulders shook with the force of her suppressed sobs. Her psychological defenses had completely collapsed.

In the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw her grandmother's frail face lying in the hospital bed. That face was the only reason she was still breathing.

Elie took a ragged, shuddering breath. She wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand. She forced her shaking legs to straighten, pulling herself up from the floor.

She looked in the mirror one last time. She smoothed down her wet hair. She took three deep breaths, forcing the panic down into a tight, hard box in her chest. She locked her facial muscles into a mask of pure, numb ice.

No matter what hell awaited her out there, she had to walk back out. For her family.

Elie walked to the door. She wrapped her hand around the cold metal handle. She hesitated for three agonizing seconds.

Click. She unlocked the door and pulled it open.

The moment the door cracked open, the heavy stench of cigars and cheap cologne flooded her senses.

Elie looked up. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks.

Mortimer's massive, bloated body was completely blocking the narrow hallway right outside the bathroom door. A disgusting, predatory grin stretched across his sweaty face.

He raised his right hand. Between his thick fingers, he held a plastic hotel key card. He waved it slowly in front of her face.

"Mr. Ewing has given his blessing," Mortimer whispered, his voice thick with lust.

He stepped closer, his stomach brushing against her. "I have a private suite booked three floors down. You're coming with me right now."

A loud ringing sound exploded in Elie's ears. The blood in her veins turned to solid ice.

Elie stared at the plastic hotel key card. Her brain completely short-circuited.

She instinctively took a step backward. Her shoulder blades slammed hard against the frosted glass of the bathroom door.

"No," Elie whispered, her voice trembling violently. She shook her head. "No, that's impossible. Ebert wouldn't agree to that."

Mortimer let out a wet, ugly snort. He took another heavy step forward, trapping her completely in the narrow alcove. His massive stomach pressed against her. He looked down at her, mocking her naivety.

"In Wall Street, sweetheart, there is absolutely nothing that a Series C funding contract can't buy," Mortimer sneered, dropping his voice to a dirty whisper. "Including you."

The last brick of Elie's psychological wall shattered into dust. Pure, animalistic panic took over.

She ducked her head and lunged forward, trying to squeeze through the small gap between Mortimer's arm and the wall to escape back into the main suite.

But she forgot about the oversized high heels.

She took two frantic steps before her right ankle twisted violently. A sharp spike of pain shot up her leg.

Mortimer reacted with surprising speed. His thick hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of her long, dark hair.

He yanked backward with brutal force.

Elie let out a piercing scream. It felt like her scalp was being ripped off her skull. The sheer force of the pull threw her off balance, and she fell backward.

She hit the thick carpet of the hallway floor hard. Her elbow slammed into the wall, sending a shockwave of numb, blinding pain up her arm.

Mortimer loomed over her like a mountain of flesh. The thrill of the hunt, the excitement of her resistance, made his eyes gleam with sadistic pleasure.

He crouched down. His thick hands grabbed her bare ankle. He began to drag her roughly across the carpet toward him.

Elie kicked wildly with her free leg. The oversized high heel on her left foot flew off, smashing against the expensive wallpaper.

She reached out, her hands desperately clawing at the wooden doorframe of the hallway. Her fingernails dug into the wood so hard that two of them bent backward, tearing the nail bed and drawing blood.

"Ebert!" Elie screamed at the top of her lungs. "Ebert, help me!"

Right at that moment, the heavy bass of the club music in the main room surged, a deafening drop in the track that completely drowned out her desperate screams.

Her screaming annoyed Mortimer. He raised his thick, meaty hand and brought it down hard across her face.

Smack!

The sharp, explosive sound of the slap echoed in the small space. Elie's head snapped to the side. Her ears rang violently. The metallic taste of blood instantly filled her mouth as her lip split open.

The blow left her dizzy and disoriented. Her grip on the doorframe loosened. Mortimer yanked her ankle, dragging her entirely under him.

He threw his heavy leg over her, straddling her thighs, pinning her to the floor. His hands grabbed the neckline of the red silk dress.

With a violent jerk, the delicate silk tore. The sound of the ripping fabric was the sound of her doom. Elie squeezed her eyes shut, hot tears streaming down her face as she waited for the end.

Suddenly, a massive, deafening crash came from the main room. It sounded like a heavy glass table being smashed to pieces.

The light spilling into the hallway was abruptly blocked by a towering, broad-shouldered silhouette.

Mortimer froze, his hands still gripping her torn dress. He looked over his shoulder, his face twisting in annoyance. "Who the hell is looking to die?"

The next second, a custom-made leather oxford shoe shot out from the darkness with terrifying speed.

The heavy shoe connected squarely with the side of Mortimer's face.

Mortimer let out a sound like a slaughtered pig. The force of the kick lifted his two-hundred-and-fifty-pound body completely off Elie. He flew through the air and slammed heavily into the opposite wall.

The suffocating weight on Elie's chest vanished. She gasped for air, clutching the torn pieces of her dress over her chest, and opened her terrified eyes.

Ebert Ewing stood in the shadows of the hallway. He looked like a demon crawling straight out of hell.

He had taken off his suit jacket. His tie was ripped loose. His chest heaved, and his eyes were a terrifying, bloodthirsty crimson as he stared at the groaning Mortimer on the floor.

Ebert bent down. His large hand grabbed the collar of Mortimer's expensive shirt. With a terrifying display of raw strength, Ebert lifted the massive man off the floor like a dead dog.