Chandler dragged her suitcase into the narrow room of the Midtown motel. The wheels caught on the frayed, mustard-colored carpet. The air smelled strongly of industrial bleach mixed with stale cigarette smoke. She wrinkled her nose, dropping her bag near the foot of the lumpy mattress. The room was depressing, but as she looked at the peeling wallpaper, the heavy weight that had crushed her chest for a year felt significantly lighter.

She walked into the tiny, cramped bathroom. The fluorescent light flickered above the sink. She turned on the cold water, cupped her hands, and splashed her face repeatedly until her skin felt numb. She grabbed a scratchy towel and patted her face dry. Staring at her reflection, she saw the dark circles under her eyes and the pale, exhausted set of her mouth.

"Not tonight," she whispered to the mirror. Tonight, she needed to forget. She needed to burn the memory of Avery's cold eyes out of her brain.

She opened her suitcase and dug past her sweaters. At the very bottom lay a dress she hadn't worn since before she met Avery. It was a black, skin-tight slip dress with razor-thin straps that dipped dangerously low in the back. She stripped off her conservative clothes and pulled the dress over her head. The silk clung to every curve. She dug a tube of aggressive, blood-red lipstick out of her makeup bag and swiped it across her lips, masking her exhaustion with pure defiance.

Thirty minutes later, an Uber dropped her off in Lower Manhattan. She stood in front of an unmarked black door in a graffiti-covered alley. This was "The Abyss," a high-end underground club notorious for its exclusivity and absolute lack of rules.

She handed her ID and a thick stack of cash to the massive bouncer. He unhooked the velvet rope. Chandler pushed open the heavy door and was instantly hit by a physical wall of sound. The heavy bass of the EDM music vibrated in her teeth and rattled her ribcage. The air was hot, thick with the smell of sweat, expensive cologne, and alcohol.

She pushed her way through the writhing bodies on the dance floor, fighting her way to the long, neon-lit bar.

"Tequila. Neat. Make it a double," she shouted over the music to the bartender.

The bartender, a guy with a neck tattoo and a nametag that read Mickey, slid a heavy glass toward her. Chandler picked it up and threw the burning liquid down her throat. The alcohol scorched a path down to her stomach, making her eyes water and her chest heave.

She slammed the glass down, raising two fingers for another round. As she waited, her eyes wandered up to the second-floor VIP balcony.

Her heart violently seized in her chest.

Standing by the glass railing, looking down at the crowd with an expression of pure disgust, was Avery. Chandler's breath hitched. She suddenly remembered Avery once mentioning "The Abyss" as a gray-area meeting ground for his shadier corporate dealings. Coming here had been a subconscious act of rebellion, a reckless provocation she hadn't fully thought through, and now the devil himself was actually here.

Avery's eyes scanned the bar and locked onto her. Even from a distance, she could see the shock morph into explosive anger on his face. He slammed his drink onto a nearby table and practically ran toward the stairs.

Chandler turned back to the bar, her hands shaking. She reached for her second shot, desperate to drink it before he reached her.

Before her fingers could touch the glass, a large hand clamped down on her wrist. The grip was brutal, the fingers digging painfully into her fragile bones.

"What the hell do you think you are doing?" Avery hissed, his voice cutting through the heavy bass. He yanked her arm, forcing her to spin around and face him. He looked at her tight dress, his eyes blazing with furious jealousy. "You sign divorce papers and immediately run to a meat market to hook up? Did you have this planned?"

Chandler yanked her arm with all her strength, breaking his grip. She rubbed her bruised wrist, glaring at him with pure hatred. "I am single, Avery! I can sleep with ten men tonight if I want to, and it is none of your damn business!"

The words shattered the last remnants of Avery's control. He grabbed the shot glass off the bar and hurled it at the floor. The glass shattered, the sound lost in the music, but the violence of the action made the people standing nearby back away quickly.

Avery pointed a shaking finger inches from her face. "Do not test my patience, Chandler. You are making a fool of yourself."

Chandler lifted her chin, refusing to show fear. "Go back to the Upper East Side, Avery. Take your control issues and choke on them."

Avery's face twisted in pain and rage. He let out a dark, bitter laugh. "You are going to regret this," he spat. He turned on his heel and shoved his way violently through the crowd, disappearing toward the exit.

The adrenaline drained from Chandler's body instantly. Her knees went weak. She slumped forward, resting her elbows on the sticky bar counter. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she dragged in ragged breaths. A single tear escaped, cutting a hot path down her cheek.

Mickey, the bartender, had watched the entire exchange. He wiped down the counter, leaning in close to her. "Rough night, sweetheart? Boyfriend trouble?" he asked, his voice dripping with fake sympathy.

The alcohol was hitting Chandler's empty stomach hard. Her brain felt fuzzy. She kept her head down, mumbling into her hands. "Ex-husband. I just... I just need a man who listens. Someone who does what he's told and makes me forget everything. Just for tonight."

Mickey's eyes lit up with predatory greed. In the underground club scene, a rich, well-dressed woman asking for a man who "does what he's told" meant only one thing. She wanted to buy a high-end escort.

Mickey lowered his voice, leaning closer. "Say no more, honey. The club can arrange a VIP special host for you. The best in Manhattan. He'll make you feel like a queen."

Chandler's brain was too clouded by the tequila and the emotional crash to process his words properly. She waved her hand dismissively, her head spinning. "Whatever. As long as it makes me happy. Money isn't an issue." She turned away, rummaging in her clutch for a tissue.

Mickey smiled. He turned his back to her, moving to a shadowed corner of his workstation. He reached into his apron pocket and pulled out a tiny plastic vial filled with clear powder. It was a heavy party drug, designed to heighten sensory arousal and lower all inhibitions.

He poured the powder into a shaker, mixed it with a bright pink, sweet-smelling cocktail, and poured it into a martini glass. The powder dissolved instantly.

He walked back and slid the glass in front of Chandler. "On the house, beautiful. Drink up. It's our special 'Forget Your Troubles' mix."

Chandler looked at the pink liquid. Without a second thought, she picked it up. "Thanks," she muttered. She took a sip, her finger mindlessly tracing the rim of the glass as she stared blankly at the flashing strobe lights of the dance floor.

Seeing her drink, Mickey pulled a small radio from his belt. He turned his back, lifting the radio to his mouth to call the club's top male model.

At that exact moment, a hidden door behind the VIP section opened. A man stepped out of the shadows. He wore a bespoke dark grey suit, a crisp white shirt, and gold-rimmed glasses. Brennan George pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. His sharp, predatory eyes scanned the chaotic room like a radar, cutting through the smoke and flashing lights.

His gaze locked onto the bar. He saw Chandler sitting there, her bare back exposed by the thin dress. A muscle feathered in his jaw. His eyes darkened. He stepped down the stairs, his long legs moving with slow, deliberate purpose toward her.

Down at the bar, Mickey pressed the button on his radio. "Dispatch, I need Falcon at the main bar for a VIP-"

A heavy hand slammed down on Mickey's shoulder, spinning him around violently. The radio slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the counter.

Mickey gasped, staring into the murderous face of Avery Osborn. Avery had come back. He grabbed Mickey by the collar of his shirt, hauling him halfway over the bar.

"What the hell did you just put in her drink?" Avery roared.

Avery's knuckles turned white as he twisted the fabric of Mickey's shirt. He hauled the bartender further over the sticky counter, knocking over a row of clean glasses. They shattered on the floor. Avery's chest heaved, his gray eyes wild with a violent, possessive rage. "I asked you a question! What did you put in her drink?"

Mickey's face drained of color. He choked, his hands scrabbling uselessly at Avery's iron grip. "Nothing! Man, chill out! It's just a little party favor. A booster! The lady said she wanted to have some fun, to buy a guy for the night! I was just helping her out!"

The words hit Avery like a physical punch to the gut. Buy a guy for the night. The jealousy that had been simmering in his blood erupted into a blinding inferno. His grip on Mickey's shirt tightened until the fabric began to tear. He shoved Mickey backward with brutal force. The bartender crashed into the liquor display behind him, sending bottles tumbling to the floor with a deafening crash.

Avery didn't look back. He whipped his head around, his eyes frantically scanning the bar stools.

Chandler's seat was empty.

Panic spiked in Avery's chest. He pushed through the crowd, his eyes darting across the dark, strobe-lit room.

Across the club, Chandler was walking unsteadily, holding the pink cocktail in her hand. She froze, her eyes locking onto a familiar silhouette a few tables away. The sharp, severe posture, the sleek bob haircut-it looked exactly like Judith Goldsmith, the senior legal counsel from the Aethelred Group, the company where Chandler worked in the PR department. Chandler's heart skipped a terrifying beat. She didn't dare get closer to confirm if it was really her. Her mind instantly spiraled, flashing back to the strict Morality Clause in her employment contract. If someone like Judith caught her here, in this tight, revealing dress, heavily intoxicated and trying to buy an escort, Aethelred would terminate her immediately. They would sue her for breach of contract, and the massive fines would leave her homeless. The sheer terror of losing her only lifeline pierced through her alcohol-fogged brain. She had just signed away everything she owned. She was completely broke. She couldn't risk being seen.

She hastily turned her back to the booth, her hands trembling as she brought the pink cocktail to her lips and took a large, desperate gulp. The liquid was sickeningly sweet, burning the back of her throat. She set the empty glass down on a passing waiter's tray. As her hand left the glass, a sudden, violent wave of heat exploded in her stomach. It wasn't the warm buzz of tequila. It was a searing, unnatural fire that rapidly spread through her veins, shooting down to her fingertips and toes.

Her breath hitched. She reached up and pulled at the thin straps of her dress, suddenly feeling like the fabric was suffocating her. Her lungs burned as she tried to pull in air. The strobe lights in the club began to smear into long, blinding streaks of color. The heavy bass of the music no longer sounded like sound; it felt like a physical hammer beating against her heart. Her skin felt overly sensitive, every brush of air causing a strange, painful tingle.

"I... I need to get out of sight. Restroom," Chandler gasped out to herself, her voice sounding distorted, like she was speaking underwater. She pushed herself away from the crowded bar area. Her legs felt like jelly. The floor seemed to tilt beneath her feet. She stumbled away blindly, desperate to escape the phantom gaze of her company's legal counsel, disappearing into the dark, narrow hallway that led to the restrooms.

The hallway was quieter, the air slightly cooler, but the fire inside Chandler was growing out of control. The drug was a heavy aphrodisiac mixed with a hallucinogen. It was stripping away her motor skills and her rational thought, replacing them with a desperate, burning physical need.

She leaned heavily against the wall, dragging her hand along the cool plaster to keep herself upright. Her vision was swimming. Up ahead, a tall figure stepped into the hallway, blocking her path.

It was Avery. He had finally found her.

Avery looked at her. He saw her flushed skin, her heavy, erratic breathing, and the way her dress was slipping off her shoulder. Mickey's words echoed in his head: She wanted to buy a guy.

Disgust curled Avery's upper lip. He took a long stride forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. His fingers dug into her bare skin. "Is this what you wanted?" he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. "Are you really going to throw away your dignity just to get back at me? You look pathetic."

The rough shake made Chandler's head spin violently. The heat inside her flared, her body instinctively wanting to lean into his cold hands, but his cruel words cut through the haze just enough to trigger her self-preservation.

She planted her hands on his chest and pushed with all the strength she had left. "Get... get away from me," she slurred. Her voice was soft, breathy, ruined by the drug.

To Avery, her weak push felt like a pathetic game. It felt like she was playing hard to get while simultaneously begging for attention. His pride recoiled. He let out a harsh, cold laugh. He released her shoulders abruptly, stepping back and letting his hands drop to his sides.

Without his support, Chandler lost her balance. Her knees buckled. She slid down the wall, hitting the carpeted floor with a soft thud. She curled her arms around her stomach, panting heavily, dark spots dancing at the edges of her vision.

Avery stood over her, looking down at her crumpled form. The urge to pick her up fought a violent war with his massive ego. His ego won. He adjusted his cuffs, his face an impenetrable mask of ice.

"You make me sick," Avery said. He turned his back on her and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the hall until they faded completely.

Chandler lay on the floor, the drug consuming her last shred of sanity. A whimper tore from her throat. The heat was unbearable. She closed her eyes, feeling the darkness pulling her under.

Just as her consciousness began to slip, a pair of expensive, custom-made leather shoes stepped into her line of sight.

A shadow fell over her. The faint, crisp scent of cedarwood and expensive tobacco cut through the stale air of the hallway. A pair of strong, muscular arms slid under her armpits. With effortless power, the man lifted her off the floor, pulling her flush against a hard, broad chest.

The man's arms were like iron bands, solid and unyielding. He pulled Chandler up, supporting her entirely against his body. Through the thin silk of her slip dress, the heat radiating from her skin was alarming. Brennan George let out a low, rough exhale. He tightened his grip on her waist, his large hand splaying across her bare back to keep her from collapsing.

Chandler's head lolled forward, her chin resting heavily against his chest. The smooth, cool fabric of his bespoke suit jacket felt like heaven against her burning cheek. She let out a soft, involuntary sigh, rubbing her face against his lapel like a cat seeking warmth.

Brennan's jaw locked. The muscles in his neck strained. His dark eyes, usually calm and calculating, flared with a sudden, dangerous heat. He forced himself to take a breath, fighting the immediate physical reaction her touch provoked. He lowered his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Chandler," he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. "Wake up."

Chandler blinked slowly. The drug made her vision swim. She could not focus on his face. All she saw was the sharp angle of a strong jawline and the faint glint of gold-rimmed glasses catching the dim hallway light. Her drug-addled brain scrambled to make sense of the situation. She remembered Mickey the bartender. She remembered asking for a man.

A hazy, breathless giggle escaped her lips. She tilted her head up. "You..." she slurred, her words running together. "You're the VIP host... the one the club sent."

Brennan's body went completely rigid. The air in his lungs stopped. A dark, predatory gleam flashed in his eyes. He did not correct her. He simply stared down at the flushed, beautiful woman in his arms, watching the way her chest he heaved with every rapid breath.

Taking his silence as confirmation, the drug stripped away Chandler's last ounce of inhibition. Her small, burning hands slid up his chest, wrapping around the back of his neck. Her fingers tangled in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. She pulled herself up onto her tiptoes, pressing her body flush against his.

"You're exactly my type," she whispered, her hot breath fanning across his jaw. "You're mine for tonight."

A certain, primal urge he had kept buried and starved for years finally broke through the dam of his carefully constructed reason. His breathing turned ragged. He grabbed both of her wrists in one massive hand, pinning them against the wall behind her. He crowded into her space, his large frame trapping her completely.

He leaned down, his nose almost touching hers. "Do you have any idea what you are playing with right now?" he warned, his voice thick with suppressed desire.

Chandler didn't shrink back. The heat inside her demanded friction. She smiled, a reckless, intoxicated curve of her lips. She stretched her neck forward, her soft lips brushing against the corner of his mouth. It was a clumsy, desperate touch, but it sent a violent shockwave straight to his groin.

Brennan groaned. He let go of her wrists, his large hands moving to cup the back of her head. He tilted her face up and crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It was a punishing, invasive kiss. It carried the weight of seven years of silent obsession and the explosive reality of finally having her in his arms. He parted her lips effortlessly, his tongue sweeping inside to taste the tequila and the sweet cherry mixer. He devoured her breath, taking complete control.

Chandler moaned into his mouth, her arms wrapping tightly around his neck. She kissed him back with a frantic, drug-fueled hunger, her body pressing desperately against his hips.

Suddenly, the heavy thud of combat boots echoed from the far end of the hallway. The beam of a heavy flashlight swept across the wall. The club's security team was doing a sweep.

The harsh light hit Brennan's back. He broke the kiss instantly, his chest heaving. He cursed under his breath. With lightning speed, he unbuttoned his long wool overcoat and wrapped it entirely around Chandler, burying her small frame against his chest and hiding her exposed skin from view.

He kept one arm firmly around her waist. With his free hand, he shoved open a heavy metal door marked STAFF ONLY. He pulled her into the concrete stairwell, letting the door slam shut behind them.

The stairwell was dead silent, lit only by the eerie green glow of the emergency exit signs. The sudden change in environment agitated Chandler. She whined in protest, twisting her body, trying to fight her way out of the heavy wool coat. The friction of her movements against his body was pure torture.

Brennan closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. His knuckles turned white as he gripped her waist, holding her still. He knew the drug was destroying her mind. If he took her now, in a dirty stairwell while she was out of her mind, she would hate him forever when she woke up. He needed her willing. He needed her lucid.

He dug his phone out of his pocket with one hand. Without looking at the screen, his thumb flew across the keypad, sending a pre-programmed emergency text to his executive assistant, Davon: VIP Suite. Top floor. Now.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket. He bent his knees, scooped Chandler up into his arms, and carried her bridal-style up the stairs toward the private elevator reserved for management.

Inside the elevator, the drug reached its peak. Chandler was burning alive. She kicked her legs, her hands tearing frantically at the collar of her dress, trying to rip the fabric away from her skin. The pale curve of her breast was exposed in the harsh overhead light.

Brennan's jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his cheek. He averted his eyes, staring fixedly at the metal doors. He grabbed her flailing hands, pinning them to her sides. "Stop," he ordered, his voice tight with agony. "We are almost there."

The elevator chimed. The doors slid open to the top-floor VIP corridor. Davon was already standing outside the suite, holding a black keycard. When Davon saw his boss carrying a half-naked, writhing woman, he immediately dropped his gaze to the floor, his face completely blank.

Davon swiped the card. The heavy oak door clicked open. Brennan strode past him into the massive, luxurious suite. He walked straight into the bedroom and tossed Chandler onto the center of the California king bed.

Chandler rolled onto her side, tangling herself in the heavy duvet. She curled into a tight ball, her body trembling violently. Tears of sheer physical frustration leaked from the corners of her eyes. The heat was cooking her from the inside out.

Brennan stood at the edge of the bed, his chest rising and falling heavily. Watching her suffer twisted a knife in his gut. He turned and strode into the massive marble bathroom. He reached into the deep soaking tub and cranked the cold water faucet all the way open. Icy water blasted from the spout.

He walked back to the bed. He didn't bother unwrapping her from the duvet. He scooped her up, blankets and all, and carried her into the bathroom.

Without hesitation, he dropped her directly into the tub of freezing water.

The shock of the ice-cold water hit Chandler like a physical strike. She let out a piercing scream. Her eyes flew wide open. She thrashed violently, the heavy, wet duvet tangling around her legs. Panic and cold overrode the drug for a split second. She reached out blindly, her hands finding the lapels of Brennan's suit jacket.

With a desperate, panicked surge of strength, she yanked backward.

Brennan, caught off guard by her sudden movement, lost his footing on the slick marble floor. He pitched forward, crashing over the edge of the tub and plunging straight into the freezing water right on top of her.