Doyle didn't pull away. He didn't even flinch.

Instead, a low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest.

He released one of her wrists, grabbed her by the waist, and hauled her off the sofa.

Erika stumbled, her bare feet dragging on the floorboards as Doyle pulled her into the tiny bedroom.

He walked to the small toddler bed in the corner. With a rough but strangely calculated movement, he tossed the sleeping Connor onto the mattress.

Connor rolled over, clutching his blanket, and stayed asleep.

Erika's heart leaped into her throat. She tried to run to the bed, but Doyle caught her by the hips and slammed her back against the cold plaster wall.

His massive frame caged her in.

He brought his hand up, his thumb and forefinger gripping her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His grip was bruising.

"Who is he?" Doyle gritted out, his eyes bloodshot with a jealousy he refused to name. "Who is the father? Was he worth losing everything?"

Erika stared back at him, her eyes shining with defiant tears. "He is ten times the man you will ever be."

The words acted like a match to gasoline.

The last thread of Doyle's control snapped.

He let out a guttural sound and crashed his mouth down onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a punishment. It was a violent, desperate claiming. His teeth scraped against her bottom lip, forcing her mouth open. He tasted like mint and the blood she had drawn from his shoulder.

Erika gagged. She brought her fists up, hammering them against his solid chest, but it was like hitting a brick wall.

Doyle's large hands slid down her spine, gripping her hips and pulling her flush against his rigid body.

The heat radiating from him, the overwhelming scent of his cologne-it all triggered a violent flashback to that dark hotel room five years ago.

Panic seized her lungs. She couldn't breathe.

Erika brought her knee up, aiming straight for his groin.

Doyle anticipated the strike. He shifted his weight, blocking her knee with his thigh, and kicked her legs apart, stepping into her space until they were pressed together seamlessly.

His mouth softened for a fraction of a second, his tongue sweeping along her lower lip in a sick, twisted imitation of passion.

Erika squeezed her eyes shut. A single, hot tear escaped, tracking down her cheek and dropping onto the back of Doyle's hand.

Doyle froze.

He pulled his head back, his chest heaving. He looked at the tear on his skin as if it burned him.

But the hesitation only lasted a second. His eyes darkened again. He reached down and gripped the collar of her cheap blazer.

With one violent pull, he ripped the fabric open, the plastic buttons popping off and scattering across the wooden floor. His cold fingers slid under the hem of her shirt, touching her bare stomach.

Erika stopped fighting. Her body went completely limp.

She looked up at him and let out a cold, hollow laugh.

Doyle's hand stopped moving. He frowned, looking down at her.

"Is this it?" Erika mocked, her voice trembling but laced with venom. "The great CEO of Morgan Group, forcing himself on his ex-wife in a slum? Go ahead. Do it. I'll make sure Taryn gets the photos tomorrow."

At the mention of Taryn, Doyle's face contorted.

He pulled his hand out from under her shirt. His fingers moved up, wrapping loosely around her slender throat. His thumb pressed dangerously close to her pulse point.

"You flatter yourself," Doyle sneered, his voice dripping with disgust. "At least Taryn is honest about what she wants. You hide behind a mask of innocence while sleeping with my brother."

The words sliced through Erika's chest like a scalpel, but she kept her chin high, refusing to let him see the bleeding.

Doyle's eyes blazed with a mix of fury and something darker, something he couldn't control.

He pushed her harder against the wall, his hand sliding down from her throat, moving aggressively over her waist, intent on proving his dominance.

But as his palm pressed against her lower abdomen, he felt the unnatural stiffness of her muscles. Her skin was ice-cold, covered in goosebumps.

Doyle's hand paused.

His keen senses picked up the subtle, metallic scent in the air. He realized instantly what was happening. She was on her period.

For a split second, the rage vanished from his eyes. It was replaced by a sharp, involuntary flash of panic and guilt. He knew how severe her cramps used to be.

But Doyle Morgan never showed weakness.

He masked the concern instantly, twisting his features into a mask of absolute revulsion.

He snatched his hand back as if he had touched a hot stove. He took a massive step away from her, putting distance between their bodies.

Erika's knees buckled. Without his weight holding her up, she slid down the wall, hitting the floor. She wrapped her arms around her stomach, gasping for air, her whole body shaking from the adrenaline crash.

Doyle stood over her. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a dark silk handkerchief.

Slowly, deliberately, he began to wipe his fingers.

He wiped them over and over, his eyes locked on Erika, making sure she saw exactly how dirty he thought she was.

When he was done, he let the expensive silk drop from his fingers. It landed on the floor right next to Erika's bare foot.

Erika stared at the fabric, her fingernails digging so hard into her palms they drew blood. She bit her lip to keep from sobbing.

"Your time in the secretary pool is over," Doyle said, his voice returning to its cold, corporate cadence.

Erika looked up, her eyes wide.

"Starting tomorrow, you are reassigned to the maintenance department," Doyle declared. "You'll be cleaning the toilets on the executive floors. You'll take out the trash."

Erika's breath hitched. "You can't do that. It violates my contract."

Doyle let out a short, cruel laugh. "I own the building. I own the contract. I am the law, Erika."

He leaned down slightly, his eyes narrowing into dark slits. "And if you even think about quitting, I will personally ensure you are blacklisted from every company in this state. You won't be able to buy a loaf of bread for that bastard sleeping on the bed."

The threat to Connor shattered the last of Erika's defenses.

The defiance drained out of her eyes, replaced by a hollow, crushing despair.

Seeing her finally break didn't give him the satisfaction he craved. Instead, a hollow ache opened up in his chest. He couldn't stand looking at her defeated face for another second.

He turned on his heel and marched out of the bedroom.

Erika heard his heavy footsteps cross the living room. She heard the front door open, and then slam shut with enough force to rattle the windows.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Erika buried her face in her knees. Her shoulders shook violently as the sobs finally tore free from her throat. She cried until her chest ached and her eyes swelled.

A soft rustle came from the bed. Connor kicked his blanket off in his sleep.

Erika's head snapped up. She wiped her face frantically with the back of her hand.

She forced herself to stand up. Her legs wobbled, but she walked to the bed and gently pulled the blanket back over her son.

She turned around, picked up the silk handkerchief from the floor, and threw it into the trash can.

She walked into the tiny bathroom, turned the shower dial to freezing cold, and stepped under the spray fully clothed. She scrubbed her skin until it was raw and red, trying to wash away the feeling of his hands.

She would not let him break her.

Three days later, every muscle in Erika's body screamed in agony.

Her lower back throbbed from bending over porcelain bowls, and her hands were raw and peeling from the harsh industrial chemicals.

But it was Saturday.

She pushed the pain deep down, put on her warmest sweater, and took Connor by the hand.

They rode the bus into Manhattan. The sun was shining brightly, casting golden reflections off the skyscrapers. Connor pressed his face against the dirty bus window, his eyes wide with wonder at the towering city.

Erika stroked his soft, dark hair, so much like his uncle's... or so she thought, a bittersweet smile touching her lips.

When they reached Central Park, the pathways were crowded with wealthy families pushing designer strollers. Erika kept a tight grip on Connor's hand, feeling out of place in her faded jeans.

Connor stopped dead in his tracks.

He pointed a small finger toward the grand, double-decker carousel. The painted horses bobbed up and down to the cheerful carnival music.

Erika walked him over to the ticket booth. She glanced at the price board.

Her stomach plummeted. The cost of a single ride was more than she had budgeted for their dinner.

Connor looked up at her. He saw the hesitation in her eyes, the way her hand hovered over her cheap wallet.

Instantly, the excitement vanished from his face. He dropped his hand and took a step back. "I don't want to ride it, Mommy. It looks boring."

The lie was so obvious, so heartbreakingly mature, that it felt like a knife twisting in Erika's heart.

Erika's eyes burned with unshed tears. She unzipped her wallet, pulled out her last twenty-dollar bill, and shoved it under the glass window.

"One ticket, please," she said, her voice thick.

She lifted Connor onto a white horse, securing the strap around his waist. She stood behind the metal fence, waving as the ride started.

Connor threw his head back and laughed as the horse went up and down. For three minutes, he was just a normal, happy kid.

When the ride ended, Connor ran out the gate and slammed into Erika's legs, hugging her tight.

He pulled back, a serious expression on his little face. He dug his hands into his jacket pockets.

He pulled out two fistfuls of quarters and dimes, pressing the heavy metal coins into her palm.

"I saved these from the bottles," Connor announced proudly. "I'm going to buy our dinner tonight. I can take care of you, Mommy."

Erika couldn't hold it back anymore. She dropped to her knees right there on the pavement and pulled him into a crushing hug, burying her face in his shoulder as the tears flowed freely.

As she held him, the smell of the crisp autumn air faded, replaced by the phantom memory of a sweltering, pitch-black hotel room five years ago.

She remembered the burning fever in her veins from the drugs her stepbrother had slipped her. She remembered stumbling into the wrong room.

She remembered the man in the dark. His skin had been scorching hot, his breathing ragged. He had held her with an overwhelming but not brutal strength, a desperate grip that wasn't meant to harm, something that Doyle had never shown her.

She had always believed, with every fiber of her being, that the man in the dark was Elijah Morgan. Doyle's older brother. The kind, gentle man who had died in the sea.

It was the only beautiful memory she had from her nightmare marriage.

Erika pulled back and looked into Connor's deep eyes. Elijah's eyes.

She wiped her tears and kissed his cheek. "I know you will, baby. I know you will."

She stood up, slipping the coins into her pocket. She would protect Elijah's son with her life.