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.

Three days later, Breanna sat on a cold wooden bench on the edge of Central Park. The autumn wind whipped through her thin sweater as she scrolled through depressing job listings on her cracked phone.

A hundred yards away stood the wrought-iron gates of Manhattan's most elite private kindergarten.

A line of black SUVs idled at the curb. Nannies in crisp uniforms and bodyguards with earpieces waited for the dismissal bell.

Breanna looked up to rub her tired eyes.

A small boy stood near the stone pillar of the gate—maybe six years old, wearing a tailored navy blazer and tiny tie. But his posture was rigid. His blue eyes were blank, staring ahead with a terrifying, defensive emptiness.

Two massive bodyguards stepped toward him.

The boy recoiled. He let out a high-pitched, guttural scream, shoving the men away with surprising violence. He clutched a piece of drawing paper against his chest.

A gust of wind ripped the paper from his hands. It tumbled through the air and landed at the toe of Breanna's worn sneaker.

She leaned down and picked it up. A chaotic, angry mess of heavy black crayon lines—pressed so hard the paper had almost torn through.

The boy, Cole, snapped his head around. His eyes locked onto Breanna.

The moment their eyes met, something inexplicable thumped in Breanna's chest.

Cole ignored the bodyguards. He marched straight across the pavement toward the bench.

The bodyguards panicked, jogging after him, but kept their hands hovering—terrified to trigger another meltdown.

Cole stopped inches from Breanna's knees. He tilted his head up. His striking blue eyes—identical to the man who had ruined her life—stared unblinking into hers.

Breanna slid off the bench and crouched down. She held out the paper with a soft smile. "Is this yours?"

Cole didn't look at the paper. He reached out his small, pale hand and wrapped his fingers tightly around Breanna's index finger.

The head bodyguard gasped, freezing. Cole despised physical touch. He hadn't let anyone hold his hand in two years.

"Young master, please step back," the bodyguard urged, stepping forward.

Cole's head whipped around. He bared his teeth and let out an aggressive, animalistic hiss. He scrambled forward and hid behind Breanna's legs.

Instinct took over. Breanna opened her arms and wrapped them around the trembling boy. She rubbed slow, rhythmic circles on his back.

Like flipping a switch. Cole's rigid muscles instantly melted.

He buried his face in the crook of Breanna's neck, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.

The bodyguards stood frozen, staring at the impossible scene.

The head bodyguard exchanged a shocked glance with his partner. The boy had never—not once—responded to a stranger like this. But protocol was protocol. He stepped forward and bowed slightly, his voice tight with urgency.

"Miss, please. He needs an outlet. Perhaps you could act as his art therapist. Just get in the car with us. We will compensate you for your time."

It wasn't trust. It wasn't approval. It was desperation.

Breanna blinked. "I'm not a nanny. I just have an art degree."

Cole's grip on her sweater tightened. His blue eyes locked onto hers with an unspoken, desperate plea.

She looked down at the boy clinging to her. Her heart ached with a profound, unexplainable need to protect him.

She nodded slowly.