The black SUV tore through the freezing New York night. Rocco tossed June roughly onto the leather backseat.

The vehicle hit a pothole. June's head slammed against the door panel. She did not stir. The darkness of her unconscious state held her in a tight grip.

The smell of harsh bleach and rubbing alcohol flooded her nose. June's eyes snapped open. The blinding white lights of a private hospital room burned her retinas.

She gasped for air. Her hands shot up, her fingers digging into the thin hospital blanket over her chest until her knuckles turned white.

A dull, throbbing ache radiated through her entire body. Her stomach cramped violently. The raw skin on her wrists burned. Her mind instantly linked the torn clothes, the camera, and the physical agony. A wave of nausea hit her. She believed the absolute worst had happened.

The door handle clicked. Aisha, a nurse in dark blue scrubs, pushed the door open. She carried a metal tray holding a syringe of sedative.

June saw the uniform. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She scrambled backward, pressing her spine against the headboard. A shrill scream tore from her throat.

Aisha stopped immediately. She set the tray down and raised both hands in the air, speaking in a soft, steady voice to calm her down.

June shook her head. Her whole body vibrated with terror. Her eyes darted around the sterile room, searching for anything to protect herself.

She lunged toward the nightstand. Her hand closed around a glass water pitcher. She hurled it onto the linoleum floor. The glass shattered into jagged pieces.

June dropped to her knees. She grabbed a sharp, triangular shard of glass. She pressed the pointed edge directly against the skin of her own neck, screaming at Aisha to stay back.

Aisha let out a heavy sigh. She reached over and pressed the call button on the wall. She told June, "Mr. Becker arranged everything before he left hours ago. Your expenses are completely covered by the family account."

The words registered slowly. They were gone. The tension in June's arms broke. The glass shard slipped from her numb fingers, slicing a deep cut across her index finger as it fell.

She collapsed against the side of the bed. Hot tears spilled over her eyelashes. A suffocating blanket of shame wrapped around her throat, choking her.

Aisha stepped forward slowly. She took June's bleeding hand. June did not pull away. She sat there like a hollow shell while the nurse wrapped white gauze around her cut finger.

When the bleeding stopped, June looked up. Her voice was a raspy croak. She asked to borrow a phone.

Aisha pulled a smartphone from her pocket and handed it over. June's fingers shook as she dialed Jessica Cole's private number from memory. Her heart lodged in her throat.

The line clicked open. It was not her mother. The cold, professional voice of Jessica Cole's assistant informed June that the madam was currently preparing to leave for the airport for her honeymoon flight to Paris.

June opened her mouth. No sound came out. The blood in her veins turned to ice.

She handed the phone back to Aisha. Without a word, June reached over and ripped the IV needle out of the back of her hand. Blood instantly welled up and dripped onto the white sheets.

Aisha gasped and reached out to stop her. June shoved the nurse's hands away. She swung her bare feet over the edge of the bed and stepped onto the freezing floor.

She opened the small closet. Her clothes hung there, washed but still torn at the collar. The sight of the ripped fabric made her stomach heave again.

She pulled the clothes on. She walked out of the room. At the end of the hallway, a massive silver crest hung on the wall. The Becker family logo. Her lungs seized. Going to the NYPD would do nothing. The Becker empire owned the city. If she fought back, that video would destroy her life.

June pushed through the hospital's revolving doors. The early morning wind slapped her face. She pulled her thin coat tighter around her chest.

She walked down into the subway station. She rode the rattling train all the way back to her cramped Brooklyn apartment. She unlocked the door, walked straight into the bathroom, and turned the shower handle all the way to cold.

She stepped under the freezing spray fully clothed. She grabbed a stiff bristle brush from the shelf. She scrubbed at her arms, her chest, her stomach. She scrubbed until the skin turned raw and red, trying to wash away dirt that was not there.

Blood began to bead on her collarbone. Her legs gave out. She slid down the wet tile wall and hit the floor of the tub. She pulled her knees to her chest and sobbed until her throat bled.

The water eventually ran out. June stood up. She looked at her pale, bruised face in the foggy mirror. She bit her lower lip until she tasted copper. A dead, numb resolve settled in her eyes.

She dried off. She put on a clean, cheap pencil skirt and a blouse. She grabbed the cardboard tube holding her architectural blueprints from the table. She opened her front door and walked out into the world that demanded she pay rent.

June walked down the street toward the subway station, clutching the blueprints to her chest.

June sat at her tiny desk in the crowded architecture firm. Her hands shook so badly she could barely hold her pen. Cold sweat glued her blouse to her spine. She stared at the lines on the blueprint, but they blurred together.

The door to the manager's office slammed open. Martin Pryce marched across the floor. He slammed a sealed black blueprint tube onto June's desk.

Martin leaned over her. He spoke fast, spitting slightly. He ordered her to take the master designs to the Apex Club in Manhattan immediately. He told her the client was waiting and mistakes were not an option.

The word Manhattan made June flinch. She pressed her back into her chair. She told Martin her stomach was sick, begging him to send someone else.

Martin slammed his fist on her desk. He leaned closer, his face turning red. He told her if she lost this account, she could pack her desk and never come back.

June swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She needed this paycheck to survive. She grabbed the black tube, pushed her chair back, and ran out of the office.

The subway car was packed. Every time a man brushed against her shoulder, June's heart hammered against her ribs. She pressed herself into the corner by the door, wrapping both arms tightly around the tube.

The train stopped at Manhattan. June walked up the stairs to the street. She stood on the sidewalk, looking up at the massive, black marble facade of the Apex Club. It looked like a tomb.

She walked up to the entrance. Two men built like brick walls stepped in front of the heavy brass doors. They looked down at her cheap skirt and scuffed heels.

June gave them Martin's name. One of the men checked an iPad. He nodded once and pulled the brass door open.

June stepped inside. The heavy scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey hit her face. Soft jazz music played from hidden speakers. The luxury made her skin crawl.

A waiter in a crisp white shirt motioned for her to follow. He led her down a dimly lit hallway lined with velvet wallpaper toward the VIP rooms.

June looked down at her phone to check the room number. She turned the corner without looking up.

A heavy oak door swung open right in front of her. A group of men in tailored Wall Street suits spilled out into the hallway. They surrounded a taller man in the center.

June looked up. Her eyes locked onto a pair of dead, black eyes. Gage Becker.

The blood stopped moving in June's veins. Her fingers went entirely numb. The black blueprint tube slipped from her hands. It hit the thick carpet with a dull thud.

Gage stopped walking. The men around him stopped. The hallway went completely silent.

Gage narrowed his eyes. He looked at her like she was a rat that had crawled out of the sewer into his dining room. Slowly, the corner of his mouth pulled up into a cruel sneer.

June's knees buckled. She spun around to run. Her heel caught on the edge of the carpet. She stumbled, her shoulder slamming hard into the velvet wall.

Gage lifted his chin. Two of his bodyguards stepped forward instantly. They blocked the hallway, cutting off her only exit.

Gage put his hands in the pockets of his custom trousers. He took a slow step forward. Then another. He stalked toward her, trapping her in the corner.

With every step he took, June smelled the motor oil and decay of the warehouse. Her chest he heave. Her breathing broke into ragged gasps.

Gage stopped right in front of her. His massive frame blocked out the light from the ceiling fixtures. He cast a dark shadow over her entire body.

The men in the hallway started whispering. They stared at the poor girl, wondering how she had managed to offend the head of the Becker empire.

Gage leaned down. He reached out and pinched June's trembling chin between his thumb and index finger. He forced her head up so she had to look at him.

June stared into his eyes. Tears burned the back of her throat. She dug her teeth into her lower lip, refusing to let the tears fall.

Gage leaned his face an inch from hers. His voice was a deadly whisper. He asked her how she had the nerve to show her face in his building.

June raised her hands. She grabbed his wrist, trying to pull his fingers off her jaw. Her voice was raw and broken. She begged him to let her go, telling him she was only here to deliver papers.

Gage glanced down at the tube on the floor. He let out a dark laugh. He did not let go. His fingers dug harder into her jawbone, bruising her skin.

He looked over his shoulder at his assistant. He snapped his fingers. He ordered the man to call Martin Pryce down here right now. He was going to break her in front of everyone.

Gage held June against the wall. The bodyguards stood like statues. They waited for Martin to arrive.

The elevator doors chimed and slid open. Martin Pryce practically fell out of the cab. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He saw Gage and immediately plastered a sickeningly eager smile on his face.

Gage let go of June's chin. He looked at his fingers in disgust. He took a white handkerchief from his assistant and wiped his hand, as if her skin had infected him.

Martin rushed forward, bowing his head. He completely ignored June, who was shaking against the wall.

Gage kicked the blueprint tube across the carpet. It rolled and hit Martin's shoe. Gage stared at Martin and stated the designs were garbage.

All the color drained from Martin's face. He stuttered, his hands shaking. He begged Gage not to pull the contract, pleading that his company would go bankrupt.

Gage turned his back. He walked into the massive VIP room and sat down on the center leather sofa. He waved his hand. The bodyguards shoved June and Martin inside.

A bodyguard pushed June hard between the shoulder blades. She stumbled forward and fell to her knees on the cashmere rug right in front of the glass coffee table.

Gage reached for a bottle of high-proof vodka on the table. He grabbed a massive crystal tumbler. He poured the clear liquid until it reached the brim. He pushed the heavy glass to the edge of the table, right in front of June's face.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He offered a deal. She drinks the entire glass right now, and the contract stays. If she refuses, they both get thrown out.

June stared at the massive amount of alcohol. Her stomach rolled. She had never been able to handle liquor. Drinking that much would make her pass out. She could not pass out in front of him again.

Martin snapped. He lunged at June like a rabid dog. He screamed at her, ordering her to drink it to save his company.

June looked up at Martin. She shook her head, her voice cracking as she told him it would poison her.

Martin grabbed June's arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. He leaned in, his voice a vicious, desperate hiss right by her ear. "Drink it, or I'll make sure your career is over before it even begins. I'll ruin you."

The sheer malice in his threat echoed in the large room. June's head snapped to the side. Her arm throbbed instantly. The metallic taste of fear filled her mouth.

On the sofa, Gage's eyes narrowed. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His fingers tightened around the armrest of the sofa, the leather creaking under his grip.

June pressed her hand to her stinging arm. She looked at Martin's furious face, then at the cold men watching her. She realized no one in this room viewed her as a human being.

She wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye with the back of her hand. She turned her head and stared directly into Gage's black eyes. A cold, dead resolve settled in her chest.

She spoke clearly, her voice no longer shaking. She told him she would rather be fired than drink it.

Gage let out a dry, mocking laugh. He found her sudden burst of backbone amusing. His eyes drifted to the heavy steel cigar cutter resting next to the bottle.

He leaned back against the cushions. He offered a second option. She didn't have to drink. She just had to take the scissors and cut off her hair.

A collective gasp rippled through the men in the room. It was an act of pure psychological humiliation.

June looked at the silver blades. Her long brown hair fell over her shoulders. Her grandmother used to brush it every night before she died.

Martin grabbed June's shoulder, shaking her. He yelled at her to do it, reaching for the scissors himself before a bodyguard shoved him back.

June closed her eyes. She took a deep breath that rattled in her chest. She reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the heavy steel cutter.

Gage's mocking smile faded slightly. He watched as June grabbed a thick handful of her hair near her jawline. Without a second of hesitation, she squeezed the blades together.

The harsh, crunching sound of steel slicing through hair filled the room. Thick locks of brown hair fell onto the expensive cashmere rug.

June moved fast. She hacked at her hair, her movements violent and jagged. She cut until her hair was a ragged, uneven mess around her ears.

She slammed the cutter down onto the glass table. Her eyes were red, but she refused to let a single tear fall. She stared Gage down and asked if he was satisfied.

Gage stared at the pile of hair on the floor. A sharp, painful tightness gripped his chest. A wave of intense frustration and anger washed over him. This wasn't the reaction he wanted.

He stood up abruptly. He leaned over the table, bringing his face inches from hers. He whispered directly into her ear, his voice like poison. "Don't forget the video. You can't run from me."

Those words shattered the armor she had just built. The memory of the red light flashed in her mind. She shoved Gage's chest, scrambled to her feet, and ran out the heavy oak doors.

June sprinted down the hallway, her chopped hair flying around her face, tears finally spilling down her cheeks as she ran for the elevator.