The elevator began to ascend. Annemarie slid down the mirrored wall, landing in a heap on the floor. The metal was cold against her burning skin. She pressed her cheek against it, trying to steady the violent spinning in her head.

Her vision was double, the lights above her looking like glowing halos. Her heart was racing so fast it felt like it was vibrating in her chest. She had been drugged. Brenda had poisoned her.

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. Annemarie blinked, trying to focus. She wasn't in the lobby. The floor was covered in thick, patterned carpet. The hallway was silent and dimly lit with wall sconces. She must have hit the top floor.

She crawled out of the elevator on her hands and knees. The hallway stretched out before her, long and intimidating. She had to find help. She had to find a phone. But her purse was gone; Brenda must have taken it.

She tried to stand, but her legs buckled. She fell against the wall, using it to support her weight. She stumbled down the corridor, her breathing ragged and loud in the quiet space.

Every door she passed looked the same: heavy wood with brass numbers. She tried the handle of one, but it was locked. She tried another. Locked.

Tears of frustration and fear blurred her vision further. The drug was pulling her under, making her limbs heavy and her thoughts muddy. She was going to pass out here, in a strange hotel, and Brenda or Eston would find her.

She reached the end of the hallway. There was one last door, set apart from the others. It was larger, more imposing. A presidential suite. Annemarie leaned her full weight against the handle, expecting it to resist.

To her shock, the handle turned. The door swung inward a few inches.

A cleaning cart was parked just inside the doorway, one of its wheels wedged against the doorjamb, preventing it from closing completely. Annemarie didn't question her luck. She pushed the door open and stumbled inside.

She didn't make it far. Her knees gave out completely, and she collapsed onto the marble floor of the entryway. The cold stone was a blessing against her flushed skin. She lay there, gasping for air, the world fading in and out of focus.

The suite was dark, lit only by the ambient light of the city streaming through massive windows. She could see the skyline of Manhattan, a glittering tapestry of light. The suite was enormous, decorated in dark woods and expensive fabrics.

She tried to call out, to see if anyone was there, but her throat was too dry. All she could manage was a weak cough. She needed water. She saw a bottle on a glass table a few feet away. She dragged herself toward it, her nails scraping against the marble.

Her hand closed around the bottle. She didn't bother looking for a glass. She unscrewed the cap with trembling fingers and poured the water directly into her mouth, spilling half of it down her chin and neck. The cold water soothed the burning in her throat, but it didn't clear her head.

She slumped against the base of the sofa, her energy spent. She was trapped in a cage of her own making. She closed her eyes, ready to let the darkness take her.

Then she heard a sound.

A door opening. Footsteps on carpet.

Annemarie froze. She forced her heavy eyelids open, peering through the darkness toward the source of the noise. A door at the far end of the suite had opened. A silhouette stood in the doorway, backlit by the bright lights of the bathroom.

The man was tall, his shoulders impossibly broad. He was toweling his hair dry, a white bath towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets clung to his chest, catching the light from the city outside. He smelled of soap and something else, something spicy and familiar.

The man dropped the towel from his head and looked toward the entryway. His eyes adjusted to the dark quickly, finding her crumpled form on the floor.

"Who the hell are you?" a low, dangerous voice demanded.

Annemarie's heart stopped. Even through the fog of the drug, she recognized that voice. She recognized that jawline, those broad shoulders, that intoxicating scent.

She hadn't escaped at all. She had walked straight into the lion's den.

"Carlisle," she breathed, her voice barely a whisper.

Carlisle stepped closer, his bare feet silent on the plush rug. He stopped a few feet away from her, his expression shifting from anger to disbelief.

"Annemarie?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave. He looked at her, taking in the wet dress, the wild eyes, and the angry red marks on her wrists where someone had gripped her too tightly.

Annemarie opened her mouth to explain, but the drug chose that moment to drag her under completely. Her eyes rolled back, and she slumped sideways onto the carpet, unconscious.

The first thing Annemarie became aware of was the pounding in her head. It was a dull, rhythmic throb that matched her heartbeat. The second thing she noticed was the softness beneath her. She wasn't on the cold marble floor anymore. She was lying on something incredibly soft, surrounded by the scent of linen and expensive cologne.

She forced her eyes open. She was in a bedroom, lying on a massive bed with crisp white sheets. The room was dark, the curtains drawn tightly shut. She tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea forced her back down.

"Drink this."

A hand appeared in her vision, holding a glass of water. Annemarie looked up. Carlisle was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a silk robe over his pajamas. His face was impassive, but his eyes were sharp, watching her every move.

Annemarie took the glass with a shaking hand. She sipped the water slowly, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. "What happened?"

"You tell me," Carlisle said coldly. "I found you half-dead on my floor. You reeked of alcohol and... something else."

"I was drugged," Annemarie whispered, the memory of the lounge rushing back. "Brenda Carter. She slipped something in my drink."

Carlisle's expression hardened. "Brenda? She's a first-year associate. Why would she drug you?"

"Because Eston paid her to," Annemarie cried, pushing herself up onto her elbows. "She said she wanted to help. She gave me papers. She was taking me to a room, and then..." She trailed off, the horror of the situation washing over her. "I have to go."

She tried to swing her legs off the bed, but Carlisle grabbed her arm, his grip firm. "You aren't going anywhere. You broke into my hotel suite, high out of your mind. Do you have any idea what this looks like?"

"I didn't know it was your suite!" she sobbed. "I was trying to get away from her. The door was open. Please, Carlisle, you have to believe me."

Carlisle released her arm, standing up and pacing the room. He ran a hand through his dark hair, looking agitated. "Why would Eston drug you? He already has the upper hand in the divorce."

"Because he wants to trap me," Annemarie said, her voice trembling. "He wants to catch me in a compromising position. If he can prove I'm an unfit mother, he gets full custody. He gets Clementine."

Carlisle stopped pacing. He turned to look at her, his eyes unreadable. "That's a serious accusation."

"It's the truth!" Annemarie shouted, frustration boiling over. "He's evil. He's not the charming philanthropist everyone thinks he is. He hurts me. He..." She stopped herself, biting her lip hard enough to taste blood.

Carlisle's eyes flicked to her lip, watching the drop of blood well up. He walked back to the bed, his expression darkening. "He hurts you?" he repeated softly.

Annemarie looked away, shame washing over her. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," Carlisle growled, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at him. "Did he hurt you tonight?"

"No," Annemarie said, pulling her chin away. "Brenda did. She dragged me through the lobby. If I hadn't gotten away..." She couldn't finish the sentence. The implications were too horrifying.

Carlisle stared at her, his jaw clenching. He wanted to believe she was lying. He wanted to believe she was just a manipulative gold-digger trying to get his sympathy. But the raw fear in her eyes was too real. The red marks on her wrists where someone had gripped her too tightly were real.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted them.

"Mr. Bradford?" a muffled voice called out. "Housekeeping. We received a complaint about noise."

Carlisle held up a hand, silencing Annemarie. He walked to the door and opened it a crack. "There's no noise. Go away."

"Sir, we have to check," the voice insisted. "The guest in the next room said they heard screaming."

Carlisle's eyes narrowed. He looked back at Annemarie, then at the door. "Fine. Come in."

He pulled the door open fully. But it wasn't housekeeping standing in the hallway. It was Brenda Carter. And she wasn't alone.

Two large men in dark suits stood behind her. One of them was holding a camera. And standing beside them, a smug smile on his face, was Eston Mcclain.

"Well, well," Eston drawled, his voice carrying into the room. "Looks like we found the runaway wife."

Annemarie gasped, scrambling backward on the bed until she hit the headboard. "No," she breathed.

Eston looked past Carlisle, his eyes locking onto Annemarie's disheveled form on the bed. "You see, gentlemen? I told you she was cheating on me. And with her own lawyer, no less. How scandalous."

Carlisle stepped into the doorway, blocking their view of Annemarie. His shoulders were tense, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "This is my private suite, Mcclain. You have three seconds to leave before I call security."

"Go ahead," Eston sneered. "Call them. I'd love to explain how I found my wife in a compromising position with the man handling my divorce. The press will have a field day."

"You set this up," Carlisle said, his voice dangerously low. "You had your little associate drug her and bring her here."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Eston said, feigning innocence. "I was simply worried about my wife's erratic behavior. When Brenda called to say my wife had run off in a manic state, we convinced the hotel manager we were looking for a mentally unstable family member. A quick check of the elevator logs and security cameras tracked her to this floor. Imagine my surprise when she led us straight to your room."

Brenda stepped forward, a wicked gleam in her eye. "She was acting crazy in the lounge. I tried to calm her down, but she ran. I was so worried."

Carlisle looked at them, then back at Annemarie. She was hugging her knees to her chest, her face buried in her arms. She looked utterly defeated.

He had a choice. He could throw her out, let Eston take her, and wash his hands of her forever. It would be the logical thing to do. It was what she deserved, after what she did to him.

But then he saw the red marks on her wrists again. He saw the way she cowered from her husband. And a cold, protective rage settled in his chest.

"You're trespassing," Carlisle said, his voice echoing in the hallway. "And you're lying."

"Prove it," Eston challenged, signaling the man with the camera. The man raised the lens, pointing it directly at Carlisle.

Carlisle didn't flinch. He simply stepped back into the room and grabbed the door handle. "Get out."

"This is evidence," Eston snapped, blocking the door with his foot. "You can't destroy evidence."

"I don't give a damn about your evidence," Carlisle said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "I care about the fact that you're harassing my client. And I care even more about the fact that your associate just admitted to drugging a woman in a public hotel."

Eston's smile faltered. "She's lying."

"We'll see what the police think," Carlisle said. He pulled out his phone, dialing a number. "This hotel has excellent security. I wonder what the cameras in the elevators and lobby captured? As for a toxicology report, I've already made a call. A judge can issue a warrant for a blood test in minutes when assault is suspected. Do you want to take that chance?"

Eston glanced nervously at Brenda. "Let's go," he muttered. "We have enough."

Brenda shot Annemarie a triumphant look before turning to leave. "See you in court, sweetie."

Carlisle slammed the door shut, locking it securely. He leaned against the wood, letting out a slow breath. The silence in the room was thick.

Annemarie didn't move. She stayed huddled on the bed, her body shaking with silent sobs.

Carlisle walked over to her, his footsteps heavy. He didn't say a word. He just sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled her into his arms. He held her tightly, letting her cry into his robe.

"You're safe now," he murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I've got you."