Brenda shoved the phone into her pocket.

She walked out of the campus gates, her legs feeling like lead. She needed to go back to her off-campus apartment. She needed a hot shower to scrub the smell of the hotel and the university politics off her skin.

She walked the three blocks to the old brick apartment building she shared with her roommate, Sloane.

As she approached the entrance, her steps slowed. A sleek, silver Porsche was parked illegally by the fire hydrant.

Emery's car.

Brenda's jaw tightened. She assumed he had come to beg or threaten her again. She walked past the car, entered the building, and took the slow, creaking elevator up to the fourth floor.

She pulled her keys from her bag and slid the key into the deadbolt.

It didn't turn. The door was already unlocked.

Brenda pushed the door open quietly. She stepped into the narrow entryway.

A sound stopped her dead in her tracks.

The living room was dimly lit, illuminated only by a single floor lamp she had left on that morning. The cheap fabric sofa was facing away from the entryway, creating a perfect blind spot. A wet, heavy slapping sound, followed by a high-pitched moan. It was coming from the living room.

Brenda's blood ran cold. She took two silent steps forward and peered through the gap in the decorative wooden divider that separated the entryway from the living room.

On the cheap fabric sofa Brenda had bought herself, Emery was on top of Sloane.

Sloane's hands were tangled in Emery's hair. She let out a breathy laugh. "You're so much better than Brenda. She's so boring."

Emery grunted, his hips moving. "She's just a boring bookworm. You know how to actually have fun."

Brenda didn't scream. She didn't cry. The betrayal was so profound, so utterly disgusting, that it bypassed sorrow and went straight to a cold, clinical rage.

Her hands were completely steady as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. She opened the camera app, switched to video, and hit record.

She slipped silently behind the corner of the narrow hallway leading to the bedrooms. From this concealed angle, she stood perfectly still, recording the clear audio and the undeniable visual evidence for thirty agonizing seconds.

Then, Brenda lifted her heavy keychain. She threw it as hard as she could against the metal entryway table.

CLANG!

The sound was like a gunshot in the small apartment.

The two bodies on the sofa scrambled apart. Emery fell off the edge, his pants around his ankles, his face pale with terror. Sloane shrieked, grabbing a throw pillow to cover her bare chest.

Brenda stepped out from behind the divider. Her face was an expressionless mask.

"If you couldn't afford a hotel room, Emery, you should have asked your mother for an allowance," Brenda said, her voice dripping with ice. "Instead of dirtying my sofa."

Emery scrambled to pull his pants up. His hands were shaking. "Brenda, wait, it's not what it looks like. I was drunk, I-"

Sloane immediately started crying, huge fake tears rolling down her cheeks. "Brenda, please! We couldn't help it. We fell in love. Please forgive us!"

Brenda felt bile rise in her throat. She walked past them into the open kitchen. She grabbed a large plastic cup, filled it to the brim with ice water from the fridge dispenser, and walked back to the living room.

Without a word, she threw the freezing water directly into Sloane's face.

Sloane screamed, dropping the pillow to wipe her eyes.

Emery jumped forward, stepping between them. "Are you crazy? Leave her alone!"

Brenda laughed. It was a harsh, broken sound. She held up her phone, the screen still showing the paused video of them together.

"Get out," Brenda said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Get out of my apartment right now, or this video goes to the university's internal forum. Let's see what the principal thinks of her son fucking a student on a cheap sofa."

Emery's eyes widened in sheer panic. He knew his mother would cut him off completely if a scandal like this broke. He grabbed his shirt, grabbed Sloane's arm, and dragged her toward the door.

"We're leaving! Just don't post it!" Emery yelled as they stumbled out into the hallway.

The door slammed shut.

The apartment was dead silent.

Brenda looked at the stained sofa. Her stomach violently contracted. She ran to the bathroom, fell to her knees in front of the toilet, and dry heaved until her ribs ached.

When she finally stood up, she washed her face with cold water. She couldn't stay here. The air felt poisoned.

She grabbed a duffel bag from her closet and shoved a few days' worth of clothes and her laptop inside. She threw the strap over her shoulder and left the apartment.

She took the elevator down to the basement parking garage. She threw her bag into the passenger seat of her beat-up Toyota Corolla and got behind the wheel.

Her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles ached. A single tear escaped, hot and angry, rolling down her cheek. She wiped it away viciously.

She started the engine and drove up the ramp onto the street.

Just as she pulled up to the intersection, a silver Porsche swerved in front of her, cutting her off.

Emery jumped out of the driver's seat. He ran to her window and started pounding on the glass with his fists.

"Brenda! Open the door! You have to delete the video! You can't do this to me!" he screamed, his face twisted in panic.

Brenda hit the door lock button. Her heart pounded in her ears. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal and jerked the steering wheel hard to the left, trying to drive around his car.

The road was slick from a recent drizzle. The Corolla's worn tires lost traction.

The car skidded sideways. Brenda pumped the brakes, but it was too late.

She didn't notice the massive, black Maybach that had been methodically tailing her since she left the university campus, now perfectly positioned at the red light just ahead.

CRASH!

The front bumper of her Toyota slammed violently into the rear of the unyielding luxury vehicle.

The airbag didn't deploy, but the impact threw Brenda forward. Her forehead smacked against the steering wheel. A sharp, blinding pain shot through her right knee as it smashed into the hard plastic under the dashboard.

She groaned, her vision blurring for a second.

Outside, Emery saw the crash. He looked at the Maybach, realized the massive trouble he had caused, and ran back to his Porsche. He peeled out, leaving her behind.

Brenda gasped for air, holding her head. She looked up through the cracked windshield.

The driver of the Maybach stepped out. He was a massive man in a black suit. He walked over to her car, his face furious, and knocked hard on her window.

Brenda unbuckled her seatbelt. Her right leg throbbed with a sickening, burning pain. She pushed the door open and stumbled out, heavily favoring her left leg.

"I'm so sorry," Brenda started to say, reaching for her insurance card. "I was cut off, I-"

The rear window of the Maybach slowly rolled down.

Brenda's words died in her throat.

Bryon Reeves sat in the back seat. His dark suit was immaculate. His slate-gray eyes locked onto her pale face, then drifted down to her trembling right leg.

He didn't look angry. He looked entirely in control.

"Get in," Bryon commanded. His voice left absolutely no room for argument.

Brenda gripped the edge of her car door to keep from collapsing. The pain in her knee was a sharp, pulsing agony.

She stared at the man in the back of the Maybach. "I have insurance," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "I'll call the police to file a report. I don't need to get in your car."

Bryon's eyes narrowed. He let out a short, cold laugh. "Your cheap insurance won't cover the custom carbon-fiber bumper of this car. And I don't have time to wait for the police."

The driver, Mitch, stepped forward. He pulled open the heavy rear door of the Maybach and stood beside it, his posture rigid. It wasn't an invitation. It was an enforcement.

Cars behind them began to honk. The intersection was getting blocked.

Brenda looked at her wrecked Corolla, then at the massive driver, and finally at Bryon's unyielding face. She had no choice.

She let go of her car door and limped toward the Maybach. Every step sent a jolt of fire up her thigh. She practically fell onto the plush leather seat next to Bryon.

Mitch slammed the door shut, sealing them inside.

The cabin was instantly silent, completely insulated from the city noise. The air smelled of Bryon-that intoxicating, dangerous mix of cedarwood and expensive tobacco. It made it hard for Brenda to breathe.

Bryon didn't look at her. He tapped the glass partition. "Mount Sinai Private Hospital."

Brenda's head snapped toward him. "No. I don't need a hospital. It's just a bruise. Drop me off at the nearest subway station."

Bryon slowly turned his head. His gaze was heavy, pinning her in place. "I need documented proof of your injuries. I will not have you suing me for medical complications a month from now, claiming my car caused permanent damage."

Brenda's mouth fell open. "Are you insane? I hit you! And I would never extort you!"

Bryon's lips twitched upward into a faint, mocking smile. His eyes dropped to her flushed cheeks. "I don't trust you, Miss Vincent. You've already proven you're full of surprises."

Brenda glared at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She tried to shift her body away from him, pressing herself against the opposite door.

The movement pulled the injured muscle in her knee. She let out a sharp hiss of pain and grabbed her thigh.

Bryon's smile vanished. His brow furrowed.

Without a word, he reached across the wide seat. His large, warm hand clamped down just above her injured knee.

Brenda flinched violently. "Don't touch me!"

Bryon ignored her. His grip was firm but not bruising. He effortlessly lifted her leg and placed it across the wide leather seat, resting her foot near his hip.

"Stop moving," he ordered, his voice suddenly low and rough.

He opened a hidden compartment in the center console and pulled out a chemical ice pack. He cracked it, shaking it until it turned freezing cold, and pressed it directly over the fabric of her skirt onto her swollen knee.

The sudden cold was a shock, but it instantly numbed the burning pain.

Brenda stopped struggling. She looked at his profile. His jaw was set, his focus entirely on holding the ice pack in place. The contrast between his ruthless words and this strangely gentle action confused her, making her heart beat in an erratic, uncomfortable rhythm.

The Maybach pulled into the VIP underground entrance of the hospital.

A team of medical staff was already waiting by the elevators with a wheelchair.

Mitch opened the door. Brenda swung her good leg out. "I can walk," she muttered, refusing to look weak in front of him.

She put weight on her right leg and immediately buckled.

Before she could hit the concrete floor, a strong arm wrapped around her waist. Bryon hauled her up against his chest.

"Stubborn," he muttered.

Before Brenda could protest, Bryon bent down, scooped her up into his arms, and lifted her completely off the ground.

"Put me down!" Brenda gasped, her face burning hot. She instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck to keep from falling.

"Keep your voice down, or I'll drop you right here," Bryon warned, his tone flat. He carried her past the stunned medical staff, ignoring the wheelchair completely, and strode into the VIP elevator.

He carried her all the way to the top floor and into a massive, luxurious examination room. He set her down gently on the examination bed.

An older, balding orthopedic specialist rushed in, followed by two nurses. "Mr. Reeves, sir. We are ready."

"Check her right knee," Bryon commanded, stepping back but not leaving the room.

The doctor carefully lifted the hem of Brenda’s skirt, revealing a massive, ugly purple bruise spreading across her kneecap.

The doctor began to press his fingers around the joint to check the ligaments.

Brenda bit down hard on her lower lip. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She gripped the edge of the bed, her knuckles white, refusing to make a sound.

Bryon watched her face. His hands slowly curled into fists inside his pockets.

"Your touch is entirely too heavy," Bryon suddenly snapped. His voice echoed like thunder in the quiet room. "You're examining a woman, not butchering a cow."

The doctor jumped, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. "Yes, sir. Apologies, sir."

After a quick portable X-ray, the doctor confirmed there were no broken bones, just severe soft tissue damage.

A nurse rolled a cart over, holding a long cotton swab and a bottle of dark iodine to clean the scrapes on Brenda's skin.

Brenda looked at the long swab and tensed.

Bryon stepped forward. He took the swab directly from the nurse's hand.

"Leave us. All of you. Now," Bryon said, not looking at anyone but Brenda.

The medical staff didn't hesitate. They practically ran out of the room, shutting the heavy door behind them.

The heavy door clicked shut. The examination room was dead silent, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning.

Brenda stared at Bryon. He stood beside the bed, holding the iodine-soaked swab. He slowly took off his suit jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair, then began rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt.

"What are you doing?" Brenda asked, her voice tight with anxiety.

"Cleaning your wound," Bryon replied calmly.

He dropped to one knee beside the examination bed. He took her slender ankle in his left hand, his thumb resting against her pulse point.

Brenda tried to pull her leg back. "I can do it myself."

Bryon's fingers tightened around her ankle, locking her in place. He looked up, his slate-gray eyes pinning hers. "Don't move."

He lowered his head and gently dabbed the iodine onto the scraped skin of her knee. The antiseptic stung sharply. Brenda hissed, her body jerking involuntarily.

Bryon paused. Without looking up, he leaned closer and blew a soft, cool breath over the stinging wound.

The sensation of his breath against her bare skin sent a violent shiver up Brenda's spine. Her heart slammed against her ribs. The intimacy of the gesture was suffocating. She looked away, staring hard at the ceiling tiles, trying to ignore the heat radiating from his large body.

A knock on the door shattered the tension.

The older doctor stepped inside, holding a clipboard. He looked extremely uncomfortable, his eyes darting between Bryon and Brenda.

Bryon stood up, tossing the swab into the trash. He pulled a tissue from the dispenser and wiped his hands. "Report the findings."

The doctor cleared his throat. "Well, the blood work is fine. However, during the initial physical assessment, the nurses noted some... other injuries."

Brenda frowned. "Other injuries?"

The doctor looked at Bryon, his expression a mix of professional concern and deep embarrassment. "Mr. Reeves, there is severe bruising on the patient's inner thighs and around her waist. While I understand young people enjoy... vigorous activities, such forceful intimacy can cause deep tissue tearing. I recommend a lighter touch in the future."

The words hung in the air.

Brenda's brain short-circuited. The blood rushed to her face so fast it made her dizzy. The bruises. The fingerprints on her waist. The marks on her thighs from last night in the hotel.

The doctor thought Bryon had done that to her in a fit of rough sex, and that she was hiding it.

"No!" Brenda gasped, mortified. "That's not-"

"Thank you, Doctor," Bryon interrupted. His voice was smooth as silk.

Brenda whipped her head to look at him.

Bryon wasn't looking at the doctor. He was looking directly at Brenda. A wicked, possessive smirk played on his lips. He reached up and slowly adjusted his left cufflink.

"I appreciate the advice," Bryon said, his eyes dark with amusement and something much more dangerous. "I will be sure to control myself better next time."

The doctor nodded quickly, relieved not to be yelled at, and practically fled the room.

The second the door closed, Brenda grabbed the small pillow from the bed and hurled it at Bryon's face.

Bryon caught it effortlessly with one hand.

"You are a sick, twisted bastard!" Brenda yelled, her chest heaving. "Why didn't you tell him the truth?"

Bryon tossed the pillow aside. He took two slow steps forward, trapping her between his arms as he placed his hands on the edge of the bed on either side of her hips.

He leaned in close. "Tell him what? That you clawed my back like a wildcat last night while begging for more?"

Brenda's breath hitched. She felt cornered, humiliated, and completely outmatched. She needed to end this game now.

She lifted her chin, forcing her voice to stay steady. "It doesn't matter. You can play your power games all you want. I resigned today. I handed my letter to Principal Benjamin. I am no longer Aiden's tutor. You have no reason to ever contact me again."

Bryon's smirk vanished instantly. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

He stood up straight. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and dialed a number. He hit the speaker button and set the phone on the metal tray next to the bed.

The phone rang twice before a panicked voice answered. "Mr. Reeves! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

It was Evonne Benjamin.

"Principal Benjamin," Bryon said, his voice a lethal, quiet drawl. "I was just informed by Miss Vincent that she resigned today. Is this true?"

"No! Absolutely not!" Evonne shrieked through the speaker. "She tried, but I refused! She signed a guarantee to finish the semester. She is still employed, I swear it!"

Bryon looked down at Brenda. Her face had gone completely pale.

"Good," Bryon said, and hung up.

He picked up his phone and slipped it back into his pocket. He looked at Brenda, who was staring at him with wide, defeated eyes.

Bryon reached out and pinched her chin, tilting her face up. His thumb brushed over her lower lip, which was bruised from her own biting.

"You are a terrible liar," he whispered.

He let go of her chin and picked up his suit jacket.

"My driver will take you back to campus," Bryon said, his tone returning to that of a cold, untouchable CEO. "You have until 8:00 PM. If you are not at the manor tonight, I will personally come to Northbridge University and show the entire faculty exactly how 'vigorous' we can be."

He turned and walked out of the room, leaving Brenda sitting on the bed, trembling with a mixture of rage and absolute despair.