At two in the afternoon, Collette had just managed to fall into a light sleep.

The door to her room swung open. A team of nurses walked in.

The head nurse smiled politely. "Ms. Norris, we are moving you to the VIP suite on the top floor."

Collette frowned. Her chest tightened with immediate rejection. "I didn't ask to be moved."

"It's a direct order from Mr. Lara," the nurse replied, already unlocking the wheels of the bed.

Before Collette could argue, two orderlies pushed her bed out of the room and into the private medical elevator.

The doors opened on the top floor.

They wheeled her into a suite that looked like a five-star hotel. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the autumn leaves of Central Park.

The nurses transferred her to the luxury bed and quietly left the room.

Collette sat in the center of the massive bed. The silk sheets felt like a golden cage pressing against her skin.

She couldn't breathe.

She ripped the empty IV tube from her hand, threw off the covers, and stood up. She needed air.

Wearing only the thin silk robe provided by the hospital, she walked barefoot out of the suite.

The thick carpet absorbed all sound. She was about to head toward the elevators when a familiar, delicate laugh echoed from down the corridor, followed by the low, commanding timbre of a man's voice. Collette's heart skipped a beat. She walked toward the lounge area at the end of the hall, hiding behind a massive potted palm tree.

A soft, rolling sound caught her attention.

Collette peeked through the green leaves. The blood drained from her face.

Hartwell was back.

He was walking slowly down the hall, his hands resting on the handles of a wheelchair.

Sitting in the wheelchair was Isabell.

She had a white bandage wrapped around her head. She was holding a paper cup of hot cocoa, giggling at something she was saying.

Hartwell, the man who never bowed his head to anyone, was leaning down slightly to listen to her. There was a faint, tolerant look on his face.

Collette's stomach lurched. A violent wave of physical disgust washed over her.

Just then, Isabell shifted in the chair. Her eyes flicked toward the potted plant. She saw the edge of Collette's silk robe.

A nasty, calculating gleam flashed in Isabell's eyes.

"Ah!" Isabell cried out.

She jerked her hand, intentionally tipping the cup. The hot cocoa spilled all over the blanket covering her legs.

She threw herself backward, crying out in pain, her head resting directly against Hartwell's stomach.

Hartwell immediately stopped the wheelchair.

He pulled a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and bent over, quickly wiping the liquid off the blanket.

While his head was down, Isabell looked up. She stared straight through the leaves at Collette and gave her a smug, victorious smirk.

Collette let out a cold, sharp laugh.

She didn't hide anymore. She stepped out from behind the plant and walked right into the middle of the hallway.

The sound of her laugh made Hartwell freeze.

He stood up straight and turned his head.

When he saw Collette standing there in a thin robe, barefoot on the floor, his eyes darkened with immediate anger.

He took long strides toward her, shrugging off his suit jacket as he walked.

He reached out, fully intending to wrap the warm jacket around her shivering shoulders.

The second the fabric touched her skin, Collette violently jerked backward.

She looked at his hands like they were covered in a deadly virus. Her eyes were filled with absolute, unfiltered disgust.

Hartwell's hands froze in mid-air. The jacket slipped halfway down his arm.

He stared at her, completely shocked by the pure repulsion in her eyes.

Collette glanced at Isabell in the wheelchair, then looked straight into Hartwell's eyes.

"Mr. Lara," Collette said, her voice dripping with ice. "Don't touch me with the same hands you use to take care of other women. I find it dirty."

The word echoed in the silent hallway.

The air around them shattered.

Collette didn't wait for his reaction. She turned around, keeping her spine perfectly straight, and walked back to her VIP suite.

She left Hartwell standing frozen in the hallway, his face turning a terrifying shade of pale.

Collette walked into her suite.

Before she could even turn around to close the door, a large, aggressive hand slammed against the wood.

Hartwell pushed his way into the room, bringing a storm of violent, freezing energy with him.

He slammed the door shut behind him and locked it with a loud click.

Collette's shoulders flinched at the noise, but she instantly forced her back straight and turned to face him.

Hartwell backed her up.

He stepped forward until the back of Collette's knees hit the edge of the mattress. His massive frame cast a dark, suffocating shadow over her.

His hand shot out, wrapping around her wrist. His grip was so tight she felt her bones grinding together.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Hartwell hissed, his voice vibrating with rage.

Collette didn't struggle. She just looked at him with dead, empty eyes.

"Mr. Lara," she said, her voice completely flat and professional. "I think we need to review the terms of our Non-Disclosure Agreement."

Hartwell's eyebrows pulled together. Confusion mixed with his fury.

Collette let out a cold laugh. "The contract states I have to fulfill my duties as your partner. It doesn't say I have to play along in your little threesome."

The words acted like gasoline on a fire.

Hartwell grabbed her shoulders and violently shoved her backward onto the soft mattress.

He leaned over her, planting his hands on either side of her head, trapping her completely. His chest heaved with heavy, angry breaths.

He let out a dark, mocking laugh.

"Who do you think you are?" Hartwell sneered, his eyes filled with cruelty. "You are a distraction I bought with my money. You have no right to question what I do."

The words drove a rusty blade straight into Collette's chest.

But she didn't even blink.

She stared right back at him, her lips curving into a cheap, seductive smile.

"You're right," she whispered. "I'm just a toy who wants your money. So, do me a favor, sugar daddy. Next time you want to touch me, wash your hands first."

Dirty. The implication hit him again.

Hartwell's last thread of sanity snapped.

He pushed himself off the bed violently.

He spun around and kicked the stainless steel medical trash can next to the wall.

The metal crashed against the floor with a deafening bang. Trash scattered everywhere, a perfect reflection of the ruined state of their relationship.

Hartwell pointed a shaking finger at her. His jaw was locked so tight his teeth ground together.

"You are unbelievable, Collette," he spat out.

He turned around, grabbed the door handle, and ripped the door open. He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.

The room fell into a dead silence.

Collette's body went completely limp. She collapsed back against the pillows.

A single, hot tear finally broke free from her eyelashes and soaked into the pillowcase.

She took a shaky breath, forcing herself to sit up. She reached for the call button on the nightstand to get someone to clean up the mess.

Before her fingers could press the button, two sharp knocks echoed against the door. K. M. Sterling stepped into the room, his expression a mask of professional detachment. He didn't comment on the overturned trash can or her tear-stained face. He simply walked over to the bedside table and placed a thick, brown envelope with the gold foil logo of the CFDA next to the lamp. "This is from Mr. Lara. He arranged it for you," Sterling stated flatly, then turned and left, closing the door behind him.

Collette's heart stopped.

She pulled the envelope out. It wasn't sealed.

She slid the papers out. It was the official entry confirmation for the elite design competition-the exact spot she had been willing to sell her soul for at the banquet.

At the bottom of the page, under the "Sponsor" section, was Hartwell Lara's aggressive, sprawling signature. The black ink was barely dry.

Collette stared at the signature.

Her brain flashed back to his retreating back.

He hadn't just come to the hospital to see Isabell. He had used his power to get her the spot, and he had come to her room to give it to her.

Collette gripped the paper. Her knuckles turned white.

Large, heavy tears dropped from her eyes, hitting the paper and smudging the black ink.

Her chest violently heaved as the walls she had built around her heart began to crack.