Six years later.

Breanna stood in front of the mirror in the employee locker room of the Finch Luxury Hotel in Manhattan. She pulled the faded gray housekeeping uniform over her head and pinned her plastic nametag to her left breast pocket.

She stared at the dark circles under her eyes. She took a slow, deep breath, trying to push down the exhaustion.

A sudden memory flashed behind her eyes-Hoke standing at the foot of her hospital bed six years ago, his face blank, telling her the baby's heart had failed.

Breanna squeezed her eyes shut. She shook her head, physically trying to dislodge the memory. She grabbed the handle of her cleaning cart and pushed it toward the service elevators.

Maria, the housekeeping supervisor, stepped into the hallway. Her heels clicked sharply against the tile.

Maria hated Breanna. She hated how the younger staff looked at her. Maria grabbed a gold-rimmed work order and shoved it hard against Breanna's chest.

"The girl for the VVIP penthouse called in sick," Maria sneered, her eyes glinting with a malicious, calculated edge. Ever since Breanna had accidentally spotted Maria skimming from the housekeeping tip pool, Maria had been waiting for a way to permanently silence her. "You're covering it. Don't mess it up."

Breanna's stomach tightened. The top floor was strictly off-limits to regular staff. But if she refused, Maria would dock her pay, and her grandmother's medication was due on Friday.

Breanna nodded silently.

She pushed the heavy cart into the service elevator and hit the button for the top floor.

The doors opened. The thick, plush wool carpet instantly swallowed the sound of the cart's wheels. The silence in the hallway was suffocating.

Breanna swiped the master keycard against the double wooden doors. The heavy click sent a jolt of pure terror straight into her heart. It felt exactly like that night six years ago.

She forced her legs to move. She pushed the cart into the massive, sunlit living room and started wiping down the surfaces.

On the center glass coffee table, a small brass incense burner sat. A thin ribbon of sweet, heavy smoke curled into the air.

Breanna didn't pay attention to it. She moved to the wet bar and sprayed glass cleaner on the shelves.

Ten minutes later, her lungs started to burn.

Her breathing grew shallow and fast. A strange, unnatural heat bloomed in the center of her chest and spread to her cheeks. Her vision began to blur at the edges.

The sweet smoke had coated the inside of her throat.

She grabbed the edge of the marble bar to steady herself. Her fingers slipped. Her elbow knocked against a heavy crystal whiskey glass.

The glass plummeted to the floor, hitting the thick rug with a dull thud.

At that exact second, the biometric lock on the front door beeped. The heavy doors swung open.

Elliot walked in. He had just stepped off a fourteen-hour flight from Tokyo. His suit jacket was slung over his shoulder, and a freezing, exhausted aura radiated from his tall frame.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

His sharp nose caught the scent in the air. The sweet, heavy aroma of a chemical aphrodisiac. His jaw instantly locked.

He dropped his jacket on the sofa and took three long strides into the center of the room. He saw the maid in the gray uniform swaying against the bar.

Breanna heard the heavy footsteps. She turned her head. Her glazed, unfocused eyes met Elliot's piercing blue stare.

The drug in her system scrambled her brain. The heat was unbearable. Looking at the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in front of her, a wave of drugged, terrifying familiarity slammed into her. Part of her screamed to run, flashing back to the brutal heat of that night six years ago, but another part was pulled in by his overwhelming, icy presence, her body paralyzed by a twisted, contradictory gravity she couldn't explain.

She took two clumsy steps forward. The toe of her cheap shoe caught the edge of the rug. She pitched forward.

Elliot's reflexes kicked in. He reached out and caught her by the upper arms.

Breanna's soft, burning body crashed into his chest.

She grabbed handfuls of his expensive silk shirt like a drowning woman grabbing a lifeline, her lips parting as a soft, unconscious whimper escaped her throat.

Elliot looked down at the flushed, beautiful face pressed against his chest. The temperature in his eyes dropped to absolute zero.

Breanna's feverish cheek pressed flat against the cool silk of Elliot's shirt.

The heat inside her veins was screaming for relief. Her hands slid upward, her fingers curling around his waist, desperately trying to pull him closer to absorb the cold radiating from his skin.

Elliot's entire body went rigid. His muscles turned to steel.

The smell of cheap, synthetic apple shampoo mixed with the sickeningly sweet incense hit his nose.

A violent flashback slammed into his brain. The dark room. The loss of control. The disgusting feeling of being chemically manipulated six years ago. The venomous anger he felt back then surged straight into his chest.

Elliot raised his hands. His fingers clamped down on Breanna's shoulders like iron vises.

He ripped her off his body with brutal force and shoved her backward.

Breanna lost her balance. She flew backward, her knees slamming hard into the edge of the heavy glass coffee table.

A sharp, blinding pain shot up her leg. The physical shock cut through the fog in her brain for a split second. She gasped, collapsing onto the carpet, clutching her bruised knee.

She looked up, dazed and trembling.

Elliot stood towering over her. He looked at her as if she were a rotting carcass on the side of the road.

He reached into the inner pocket of his suit pants and pulled out a pristine white handkerchief. He began wiping his hands, dragging the fabric over his fingers with violent, disgusted motions.

Breanna opened her mouth to speak. Her throat was bone dry. No sound came out.

Elliot let out a low, dark laugh. The sound was like a serrated blade scraping against her eardrums.

"Did you really think this would work?" Elliot's voice was a lethal whisper. "You think spraying some cheap aphrodisiac in my room is going to get you a promotion to my bed?"

He pointed a long finger at the cleaning cart. "Your acting is pathetic. You belong in the gutter, not my penthouse."

All the blood drained from Breanna's face. A wave of intense, suffocating humiliation crashed over her.

She placed her palms flat on the carpet, trying to push herself up. But the drug was still in her system. Her legs turned to jelly, and she sank back down to her knees.

Elliot didn't even look at her struggling. He turned his back, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and picked up the landline.

He hit the speed dial for security.

"Get this trash out of my suite," he ordered. He slammed the phone down.

Three minutes later, the doors burst open. Two massive hotel security guards in black suits marched in.

Elliot kept his back to the room. He pointed a finger over his shoulder at the floor.

The guards grabbed Breanna by the armpits. They hauled her up roughly, her feet dragging against the carpet.

The rough handling snapped Breanna's last thread of composure. Tears of pure frustration spilled over her eyelashes.

"I didn't do this!" she screamed, fighting against the guards' grip. "I was told to clean! Someone set this up!"

Elliot's broad back didn't move an inch. He didn't turn around.

The guards dragged her out into the hallway. The heavy double doors slammed shut with a deafening boom, cutting off her voice.

Elliot tossed the soiled handkerchief into the trash can. He walked over to the coffee table, picked up a glass of ice water, and dumped it directly over the brass incense burner.

The smoke hissed and died.

Elliot stared at the wet, black ash. A strange, violent annoyance twisted in his gut-an emotion he couldn't rationalize.

Downstairs, the security guards dragged Breanna through the service corridors and threw her out the back exit. She landed hard on the wet concrete of the alleyway, the cold rain soaking her uniform.

The termination letter landed on Breanna's desk with a sharp slap.

Ken Kaplan, the General Manager, didn't bother to look up. "You violated the non-disclosure agreement and employee code of conduct. Pack your locker and get out."

Breanna's heart hammered. "Mr. Kaplan, Maria sent me up there. I didn't light that incense. Check the cameras—"

Kaplan slammed his hand on the desk. "That's Mr. Finch's private residence. You crossed a line with the owner of this hotel. You're lucky he didn't have you arrested."

No severance. No final paycheck. Her grandmother's heart medication bill flashed through her mind.

She grabbed the letter and ran.

She sprinted down the back stairwell into the underground VIP parking garage, her breath burning in her throat. A black, armored Maybach was pulling out of its private bay.

Breanna didn't think.

She slipped through the staff exit just as the security gate ground shut, ducked past the guards' blind spot, and threw herself directly in front of the massive grille where the ramp narrowed, arms spread wide.

The driver slammed the brakes. Tires shrieked against concrete.

The heavy bumper stopped one inch from her kneecaps.

The tinted rear window rolled down slowly. Elliot's profile appeared, carved from ice.

Breanna marched to the side of the car. She slapped the termination letter against the bulletproof glass. "Why are you destroying my life? You fired me for something I didn't do!"

Elliot didn't turn his head. His eyes stayed fixed forward. "I handle billion-dollar acquisitions before breakfast. I don't waste memory space on people who throw themselves in front of my car."

The arrogant dismissal hit like a physical blow.

"You're a monster," she spat. "You think because you were born with money, you can just step on people? You ruin lives without even blinking."

The air in the garage thinned dangerously.

Elliot's jaw tightened. He didn't move. Didn't look at her. His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "Women like you—who use their bodies as shortcuts—are the ones ruining their own lives."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out an antibacterial wipe, and slowly, deliberately, wiped his fingers—the ones that had never touched her.

"If I ever see your face in this city again, I will make sure you can't even get a job scrubbing toilets."

The window rolled up.

"Drive," his muffled voice ordered.

The engine roared. The car sped past her, exhaust blowing the hem of her cheap skirt.

The termination letter fluttered in the wind and landed in a puddle of dirty oil.

Breanna stood alone in the freezing garage. She dug her fingernails into her palms until the skin broke. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

She was not going to let this man break her.