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.

The Maybach passed through the massive wrought-iron gates of the Reeves Manor. The Gothic-style mansion loomed in the darkness, its stone walls looking more like a fortress than a home.

Brenda stepped out of the car. Her knee ached dully.

The head butler, Giles, was waiting at the massive oak front doors. He bowed slightly. "Miss Vincent. Please follow me."

Brenda expected to be led upstairs to the library where she usually tutored Aiden. Instead, Giles led her down a long corridor and opened the doors to a private, dimly lit drawing room.

Bryon was sitting in a deep leather armchair. He was wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, the bow tie hanging loose around his neck. He held a crystal glass of amber whiskey.

Brenda stopped in the doorway. "Where is Aiden? I need to start the lesson."

Bryon took a slow sip of his whiskey. "Aiden got into a fight at school today. He is grounded in his room. There will be no tutoring tonight."

Brenda felt a surge of relief. "Then I'll leave."

She turned around.

"Not so fast," Bryon's voice cut through the room, cold and sharp.

He picked up a manila folder from the side table and tossed it onto the glass coffee table in front of him.

"The repair estimate for the Maybach," Bryon said.

Brenda walked over and picked up the folder. She opened it. Her eyes scanned the itemized list and landed on the total at the bottom.

$312,000.

Brenda gasped. The paper shook in her hands. She looked up at him, her eyes blazing. "This is extortion! It was a bumper! You can't charge three hundred thousand dollars for a bumper!"

Bryon stood up. He walked slowly toward her, his tall frame casting a long shadow. "It is a custom-built, ballistic-grade carbon-fiber bumper shipped from Germany. That is the cost."

He stopped right in front of her. The smell of whiskey and cedar enveloped her.

"But," Bryon said softly, looking down at her, "I am willing to wipe the debt clean. Tonight."

Brenda clutched the folder to her chest, her knuckles white. "How?"

"You will accompany me to a charity gala tonight. You will act as my date. You will smile, you will hold my arm, and you will do exactly as I say. Do that, and the debt is forgiven."

Brenda stared at him. Her stomach twisted into tight knots. She knew the upper-class world. She knew nothing was ever just a simple favor.

"I can pay you back," Brenda lied, her voice trembling. "I can set up a payment plan."

Bryon let out a dark, mocking laugh. "On a university lecturer's salary? It would take you a hundred years. You don't have a choice, Brenda."

Before she could argue, Bryon snapped his fingers.

The doors to the drawing room opened. Two women dressed in chic black outfits walked in, pushing a rolling rack filled with glittering evening gowns.

"Make her presentable," Bryon ordered the stylists.

For the next hour, Brenda was stripped, scrubbed, and painted. She fought every step of the way, but the stylists were relentless.

They forced her into a midnight-blue velvet gown. It clung to her curves like a second skin, featuring a plunging back that left her spine completely exposed. The doctor had administered a localized painkiller injection to her knee, numbing the sharp agony into a dull, manageable throb, but every step still felt precarious.

When the makeup artist noticed the faint red marks on her collarbone-the bruises from Bryon's mouth-she didn't say a word. She simply took a brush and expertly covered them with shimmering body highlighter.

When Brenda finally stepped out of the dressing room, Bryon was waiting.

He turned around. His slate-gray eyes swept over her, from the sleek updo of her dark hair down to the elegant, silver flat shoes on her feet. A dark, hungry fire flared in his eyes, so intense it made Brenda want to step back.

He walked up to her. He held an open velvet box. Inside rested a diamond necklace that caught the light like crushed ice.

Bryon stepped behind her. He draped the heavy necklace around her throat. His cold fingertips brushed against the sensitive skin of her nape, sending a violent shiver down her spine. His gaze flicked down to her flat shoes. "Do not think for a second that your little injury earns you any mercy tonight," he murmured.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "Remember your role tonight," he whispered, his voice a dark threat. "If you embarrass me, you will pay me back every single cent."

Brenda bit her lower lip, tasting her own lipstick. She forced herself to nod.

They walked out to a waiting Rolls-Royce.

Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up to a private club in Manhattan. The moment the door opened, a barrage of camera flashes exploded like lightning.

Brenda squeezed her eyes shut, blinded by the light.

Bryon's arm wrapped tightly around her bare waist. His grip was possessive, almost painful. He pulled her flush against his side, shielding her from the worst of the flashes as he guided her up the red carpet.

Inside the grand ballroom, the air was thick with the smell of expensive perfume and old money.

Every eye in the room turned to them. Whispers broke out instantly. Bryon Reeves never brought dates to public events.

Brenda forced a stiff smile, her face hurting from the effort. Her knee throbbed despite the flat shoes and the fading painkillers.

A waiter walked by with a tray of champagne. Bryon stopped him. Instead of taking a glass of alcohol, Bryon picked up a crystal glass of warm water and pressed it into Brenda's hand.

Brenda looked up at him, startled by the unexpected gesture.

But before she could process it, the crowd near the entrance parted.

A woman walked into the room. She wore a flowing white haute couture gown. Her hair was styled in soft waves. She looked gentle, elegant, and perfectly fragile.

Brenda felt the arm around her waist turn to solid iron. Bryon's entire body went rigid.

Brenda looked at the woman, then up at Bryon's face. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. His eyes were locked on the woman in white.