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.

The black Maybach dropped Brenda off at the edge of the Northbridge University campus.

She limped out of the car, ignoring the driver's offer to help. Her knee throbbed with every step, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the suffocating weight of Bryon's threat.

As she walked down the tree-lined path toward the Humanities building, she noticed students turning to stare at her. A group of girls sitting on a bench pointed in her direction, whispering furiously behind their hands.

Brenda frowned. She pulled out her phone, which she had charged in the car, and opened the university's internal forum app.

The top trending post had a bright red 'HOT' tag next to it.

Title: Hypocritical Lecturer Destroys Roommate's Life Out of Jealousy.

Brenda's stomach dropped. She clicked on the post.

It was written by Sloane. The post was a tear-jerking essay about how Brenda, jealous of Sloane's "pure friendship" with Emery, had violently kicked her out of their apartment and thrown freezing water on her.

Attached was a selfie of Sloane, her hair wet, mascara running down her face, looking like the ultimate victim. Below that was a maliciously cropped photo of Brenda standing too close to an older, married male professor, making it look like they were flirting.

The comments were a bloodbath.

User12: I always knew Vincent was a fake. Sleeping her way to tenure.

User45: Fire her! She's a psycho!

Brenda's vision swam with red-hot anger. Her fingers gripped the phone so tightly the cracked screen spiderwebbed further.

She didn't stop to argue with the staring students. She marched straight to her office, went inside, and locked the door behind her.

She opened her laptop. She connected her phone and transferred the video she had taken in the apartment.

Because the video showed Sloane and Emery half-naked, posting it raw would violate revenge porn laws and get her fired instantly. Brenda opened a video editing software. Her hands moved with cold, mechanical precision.

She blurred out the lower halves of their bodies completely. She kept Sloane's face crystal clear. She boosted the audio track so Sloane's moans and her exact words-"You're so much better than Brenda"-were impossible to miss.

Just as she finished exporting the file, someone started pounding violently on her office door.

"Brenda Vincent! Open the door!"

It was Sloane's voice, shrill and demanding.

Brenda stood up, smoothed her skirt, and unlocked the door.

Sloane stood in the hallway, flanked by three angry-looking student council members. A crowd of curious students had already gathered in the corridor, holding up their phones to record the drama.

Sloane crossed her arms, playing to the crowd. "You need to apologize to me publicly, Brenda. You ruined my clothes, you kicked me out, and you're spreading lies about me and Emery!"

Brenda looked at Sloane's fake, teary eyes. She felt absolutely nothing but contempt.

Without saying a word, Brenda turned around, picked up her laptop, and walked back to the doorway. She turned the screen to face the crowd and cranked the volume to maximum.

She hit the spacebar.

The sound of wet slapping and Sloane's breathy voice echoed loudly through the concrete hallway.

"You're so much better than Brenda. She's so boring."

The entire hallway went dead silent. The students who were recording lowered their phones, their mouths hanging open in shock.

Sloane's face drained of all color. She lunged forward, screaming, trying to slam the laptop shut.

Brenda shoved her back hard with her free hand.

"You slept with my boyfriend on my sofa," Brenda said, her voice carrying clearly down the hall. "And then you come here to play the victim? You are pathetic."

The crowd erupted. The whispers turned into loud, disgusted groans directed entirely at Sloane.

"She's a homewrecker!" someone yelled.

Sloane panicked. She looked around wildly. "No! Emery forced me! I didn't want to!"

"Save it," Brenda cut her off coldly. "I've already dumped that trash. You two deserve each other."

Brenda tapped her trackpad. "I just emailed this video, along with the timestamp and location data, to the University Disciplinary Committee. Have a nice life, Sloane."

Brenda stepped back and slammed her office door shut, locking it.

She leaned against the wood, listening to Sloane sobbing and the crowd turning on her. The adrenaline slowly faded, leaving her exhausted.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

It was a text from Mitch, Bryon's driver.

I am parked at the west gate. It is 7:15 PM.

The brief victory over Sloane vanished into thin air. The real monster was waiting.

Brenda went to the small mirror on her wall. She took out a high-necked black turtleneck and changed into it, making sure it covered every inch of her collarbone and neck. She put on loose black trousers to hide the bandage on her knee.

She walked out of the building. The black Maybach was waiting like a hearse in the shadows.

Brenda opened the door and got in. The car pulled away, heading toward the dark, sprawling estates of Long Island.