The elevator numbers climbed. 1... 2... 3...

Eva watched her reflection in the polished brass doors. The cut on her cheek had stopped bleeding, but it was swelling, a jagged red line against her pale skin.

"It's bad," Felicity whispered, standing in the corner of the elevator. "They're saying Arvo was with her."

Eva turned her head sharply.

Arvo Crawford. Alek's younger brother. The family failure.

"He... he used company funds," Felicity stammered, realizing she was saying too much but unable to stop. "To bail her out. To hush it up. But the press found out."

Eva closed her eyes for a second.

It wasn't just a DUI. It was a merger of disasters. The Bowens and the Crawfords, tied together again by stupidity and greed.

Ding.

The doors opened to the penthouse.

Felicity stayed in the elevator. She pressed the 'Close' button frantically.

Eva stepped out.

The penthouse was dark. The only light came from the city skyline through the panoramic windows. The air smelled of expensive bourbon and destruction.

Glass crunched under her shoe.

Eva looked down. A crystal tumbler lay shattered on the marble floor.

"Did you know?"

Alek was sitting on the leather sofa, shrouded in shadow. The blue light of a tablet illuminated his face, making him look like a ghost.

He swiped the screen violently, then tossed the tablet onto the coffee table. It landed with a heavy clack.

The screen showed Britt's mugshot.

Alek stood up. He walked toward her, kicking a piece of broken glass across the floor.

"Your sister," he spat the word out like poison. "She's a cancer. Just like your father."

Eva shook her head. She held out her hands, palms up. I didn't know.

"Don't lie to me!" Alek roared.

He grabbed a stack of papers from the table and threw them at her.

They fluttered through the air, hitting her chest, her face. They scattered on the floor around her.

Eva looked down. Bank transfers. Arvo Crawford to Britt Bowen. Huge sums.

"My brother," Alek said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Is facing an embezzlement charge because of your sister's drug habit."

He pointed to the floor.

"Clean it up."

Eva looked at the papers.

"Not the papers," Alek said. "The glass."

He gestured to the shards of the crystal tumbler scattered near his feet.

"Use your hands."

Eva hesitated.

"Do it," he commanded.

Eva knelt. She reached for a large shard of jagged crystal. She picked it up, placing it in her other palm.

She reached for another. And another.

A tiny sliver, invisible against the marble, sliced into her thumb.

She flinched. A sharp intake of breath.

A drop of bright crimson blood welled up. It seemed to hang in the air for an eternity before falling, a single, perfect sphere of red against the pristine white carpet.

Alek's eyes snapped to the blood.

His pupils dilated. He took a step back, his breath hitching. He didn't look triumphant. He looked sick. A faint sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead, his jaw clenching as if fighting a wave of nausea.

He stared at the red spot on the carpet, then at her bleeding hand.

"Stop," he said. His voice was strained.

Eva kept picking up the glass. She needed to finish.

"I said stop!" Alek shouted. He kicked the coffee table, sending it skidding across the room. "Get out! Get out of my sight!"

Eva scrambled to her feet, clutching the shards of glass in her good hand, blood dripping from the other.

She bowed quickly and backed toward the elevator.

As the doors closed, she saw Alek turn away, running his hands over his face, his shoulders shaking.

He wasn't angry at her. He was unraveling.

Eva looked at her bleeding thumb. The pain was sharp, grounding.

He has a weakness, she thought. He can't stand the sight of real damage.

The next morning, Eva pushed the breakfast cart into the master suite. Her thumb was wrapped in a thick bandage.

The room was dim. Alek was still in bed, tangled in the gray sheets. He was muttering something in his sleep, his brow furrowed in distress.

Eva set the coffee cup on the nightstand. Clink.

Alek's eyes flew open.

In a blur of motion, his hand shot out. He grabbed her wrist.

He grabbed the injured hand.

Eva let out a muffled cry of pain as his fingers squeezed the bandage.

Alek blinked, the fog of sleep clearing. He saw her face. He looked down at his hand crushing her injury.

He didn't let go.

He yanked her forward. Eva lost her balance, falling against the side of the mattress.

Alek sat up. The sheet fell to his waist. His chest was bare, defined muscle moving with his heavy breathing.

"Why didn't you move?" he rasped, his voice thick with sleep.

Eva pointed to her throat with her free hand. I can't.

Alek scoffed. He released her wrist, but immediately reached up and grabbed her chin. He pulled her face close to his.

"There was a hair on my pillow," he lied. His eyes searched hers. "Sloppy."

Eva stared back. The pillowcase was fresh. He just wanted a reason to touch her.

His hand slid down from her jaw. His fingers wrapped around her neck, not choking, but resting. His thumb pressed against her carotid artery.

He closed his eyes.

Eva held her breath. Her heart was racing, pounding against his fingertips. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Alek kept his eyes closed. He seemed to be drinking in the rhythm of her fear.

"Fast," he whispered. "Like a little bird flying into a window."

Eva felt bile rise in her throat. She stood rigid, forced to endure his touch.

Alek's eyes snapped open. They were clear now, sharp and cold.

"Are you cursing me in that head of yours, Eva?"

Eva averted her gaze.

Alek pushed her away abruptly, as if she had burned him.

"Draw my bath," he ordered, turning away. "And get out."

Eva stumbled back. She rushed into the bathroom, her legs shaking.

She turned the faucets on full blast. The water roared into the massive stone tub.

She gripped the edge of the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. Hate burned in her chest, hot and purifying.

Ring.

Alek's phone.

Eva reached out and turned the water flow down, just enough to hear.

"Dr. Evans," Alek's voice floated in from the bedroom. It was different. Respectful. Desperate.

"Is the team ready?"

Pause.

"I don't care about the cost. I want the best. The vocal cord reconstruction... yes."

Eva froze.

"She needs to speak again," Alek said. "Fix it. Whatever it takes."

Eva gripped the sink until her knuckles turned white.

He wasn't talking about Arvo or Britt. The specificity... vocal cord reconstruction. A cold dread washed over her. He suspected. This wasn't about fixing someone; it was about exposing her. Or worse, ensuring her silence was permanent, carved into her throat with a surgeon's blade.

Hypocrite. Monster.

She turned the water back up, drowning out his voice, drowning out the terror.

Eva was dusting the lower shelves of the library, trying to blend into the woodwork.

Alek sat behind the massive oak desk. Arthur stood in front of him, looking pale.

"Gone?" Alek asked. His voice was dangerously quiet.

"The facility called," Arthur reported. "Arvo used his credentials to sign out Miss Britt Bowen an hour ago. They're gone."

Alek was holding a fountain pen.

Snap.

The sound was sharp like a bone breaking.

Ink exploded over Alek's hand. Black liquid dripped down his fingers, staining the expensive leather desk pad.

"That useless..." Alek stood up. "He's going to destroy everything."

Eva paused in her dusting. The name Arvo hung in the air.

Alek's head snapped toward her. He had seen the hesitation.

"Out," he barked at Arthur.

Arthur fled.

Alek rounded the desk. He walked toward Eva. He held up his hand, the black ink glistening like oil.

"You Bowens," he said, looming over her. "You infect everything you touch."

Eva backed up until her spine hit the bookshelf. Books dug into her shoulder blades.

Alek reached out.

He placed his ink-stained hand on her cheek. He slid his thumb across her skin, leaving a thick, black smear.

Eva flinched, her eyes wide with horror. It felt like he was branding her.

"You're mine," he whispered. "Until every cent is paid. You don't get to run like your sister."

The intercom on his desk buzzed.

Alek stared at her for a second longer, then turned and pressed the button.

"Speak."

"Sir," Emory Chapman's voice filled the room. Cool. Detached. "I've located them. Motel 6 off the interstate."

Alek grabbed a rag and wiped his hand. "Send the team."

"There's a complication," Emory said. "Britt Bowen has been transported to St. Jude's. Overdose."

Alek froze.

If Britt died, the scrutiny on the families would be unbearable. The merger, the Senate seat, everything would collapse.

Alek threw the rag on the floor. He grabbed his coat.

He stopped next to Eva on his way out.

"Don't wash it off," he said, pointing to her face. "Wear it."

He slammed the door.

Eva slid down the bookshelf to the floor. She touched her cheek. The ink was wet, sticky.

She scrambled up and ran to the small bathroom attached to the library.

She turned on the tap and scrubbed. She used soap, then a rough sponge. She scrubbed until the black faded to gray, and the gray faded to angry red. She scrubbed until the skin broke and raw blood mixed with the water.

She wasn't just washing off ink. She was trying to wash off his ownership.

Knock, knock.

Eva jumped.

The door opened a crack. Felicity slipped a hand inside.

"For you," she whispered.

She dropped a folded piece of paper on the sink and vanished.

Eva picked it up with wet, trembling hands.

It was a small note.

Midnight. The West Terrace. - E

Eva stared at the letter E.

Emory.