Keeley dragged her heavy legs into her dorm room. A wave of extreme weakness washed over her.

The freezing temperature of the lecture hall, combined with the violent emotional whiplash, had completely broken her immune system.

She didn't even have the energy to change her clothes. She crawled straight into bed and wrapped herself tightly in a thick wool blanket.

Her forehead was burning hot. Her head throbbed as if someone was taking a hammer to her skull.

The phone on her nightstand suddenly let out a harsh vibration. The screen lit up the dark corner.

It was an iMessage from HK, asking if she had taken her temperature yet.

Keeley stared at the screen. She bit down on her cracked lips and refused to reply.

Five minutes later, the phone buzzed again. A second message from HK: Medicine is in your jacket pocket. Take it.

Keeley froze. She forced herself to sit up and reached for the suit jacket she had dumped at the foot of the bed. Her fingers brushed against a small cardboard box tucked inside the outer pocket. Cold medicine.

Holland must have slipped it in when he grabbed her phone—or when he shoved the device back into her hand. She had been too shocked to notice.

The realization of his absolute, suffocating infiltration made Keeley's stomach churn. She threw the box violently into the trash can.

She slammed the phone face down on the table and closed her eyes, trying to sleep off the fever.

Bang!

The dorm door was kicked open. Her roommate, Anjelica, walked in with three other girls.

They were carrying takeout bags and blasting deafening hip-hop music from a portable speaker.

Anjelica, still seething with visible jealousy over the fact that Holland had completely ignored her own attempts to make eye contact during the lecture, sat down at her desk. She smashed her fingers onto her mechanical keyboard, deliberately cranking up the volume and screaming into her headset while playing a video game.

The noise pierced Keeley's throbbing brain. She weakly poked her head out from under the blanket.

"Can you please turn it down a little?" Keeley asked, her voice raw and scratchy. "I'm sick."

Anjelica stopped typing. She spun her chair around, her eyes flashing with a petty, vindictive gleam as she let out a loud, mocking sneer.

"You loved the attention at the lecture today, Keeley," Anjelica yelled over the music. "Don't act all fragile now just because you're back in the dorm."

The other girls erupted into harsh, grating laughter.

Keeley's body shook with anger, but the high fever robbed her of the strength to fight back.

She pulled the blanket over her head in despair. Her violent coughing was completely drowned out by the video game sound effects.

Suffocating in the dark under the wool, Keeley realized she could not survive in this toxic environment for another day.

She fumbled for her phone, turned the brightness all the way down, and opened a cheap NYC rental website.

She scrolled through the sketchy, rundown listings deep in Brooklyn, far away from Manhattan.

Looking at the depressing photos and the still-exorbitant rent prices, her eyes burned with tears of sheer helplessness.

Just then, a banner notification dropped down from HK: Ignoring my texts. You must be really sick.

That arrogant, controlling taunt was the final straw.

Keeley pressed her thumb hard against the power button and completely shut the phone off. She severed all connections.

She bit her lip until she tasted blood in the dark, swearing to herself that she would crawl out of here tomorrow morning to look for an apartment.

At seven in the morning, Keeley pushed open the front doors of her dorm building. Her legs felt like they were filled with lead.

Her face was as pale as a sheet of paper. Dark, heavy circles bruised the skin under her eyes, and her lips were cracked and bloodless.

A sharp autumn wind blew past. She broke into an uncontrollable fit of coughing, wrapping her cheap coat tighter around her shivering frame.

She looked down at the piece of paper in her hand with the Brooklyn address. She started walking unsteadily toward the subway station.

Right at that moment, a pitch-black Maybach S680 glided silently to the curb right beside her.

The dark, bulletproof window of the backseat rolled down, revealing Holland's face. It was dark as a thundercloud.

His deep eyes scanned her swaying, fragile body like a radar. His eyebrows snapped together in a harsh line.

Hearing the engine, Keeley turned her head. When she saw him, she stumbled backward instinctively, like she had just seen a monster.

Holland didn't waste a single word. He shoved the car door open and stepped out, his long legs eating up the distance between them.

Panic flooded Keeley's veins. She turned around and tried to run toward the opposite street to escape his sight.

But the fever made her steps clumsy. Before she could take three steps, Holland's large hand clamped down hard on her thin wrist.

The burning heat radiating from her skin made Holland's expression freeze over. He harshly demanded to know why her phone was turned off.

Keeley struggled wildly. "Let me go!" she screamed, her voice hoarse and broken. "I have to go look at an apartment!"

Holland glanced at the crumpled piece of paper in her hand. A flash of violent rage ignited in his eyes.

He completely ignored her resistance. He bent down, scooped his arm under the back of her knees, and lifted her entirely off the ground.

Keeley let out a sharp gasp. Her feet dangled in the air. Her weak fists beat uselessly against his rock-hard chest.

A few early-rising Columbia students walked by, covering their mouths in shock at the aggressive scene.

Holland shot a lethal, warning glare at the bystanders. He carried her straight toward the Maybach.

The driver immediately pulled open the rear door. Holland shoved her struggling body into the luxurious interior.

Keeley scrambled toward the opposite door to escape, but Holland's massive frame was already inside. He slammed the door shut behind him.

The locks clicked with a sharp snap. Keeley was completely trapped in the airtight, opulent space.

"Dr. Evans' private clinic on the Upper East Side," Holland ordered the driver coldly.

Keeley pressed herself into the furthest corner of the leather seat. She glared at him with terrified, defensive eyes, like a wounded hedgehog.

Holland looked at the unnatural, feverish flush on her cheeks. He let out a heavy sigh.

Suddenly, he leaned forward. Ignoring her kicks and pushes, he dragged her forcefully into his broad chest.

He took off his cashmere overcoat-still warm from his body-and wrapped her up tightly like a cocoon.

Trapped in his embrace, surrounded by the heavy scent of cedarwood, Keeley felt a sickening, fatal sense of safety.

She wanted to bite his shoulder to protest, but the fever finally drained the very last drop of her energy.

Holland's large hand gently pressed against the back of her head, tucking her face into his chest.

Listening to his steady, powerful heartbeat as the Maybach drove smoothly through the city, Keeley's consciousness slipped into complete darkness.

Keeley lay quietly on the soft, pristine white hospital bed. The dangerous red flush of her fever had finally faded.

Inside the clear IV tube, the medication dripped steadily into the blue vein on the back of her hand.

Holland had taken off his suit jacket. Wearing only a dark dress shirt, he sat in the single leather armchair right beside her bed.

His deep eyes were fixed on Keeley's face, unblinking, as if trying to carve her features into his very bones.

Stripped of his polite, academic mask, his eyes boiled with a dark, greedy possessiveness.

He slowly leaned forward. He reached out with his long fingers and gently brushed away a few stray hairs sticking to her forehead.

His movements were agonizingly gentle, carrying a reverent carefulness that completely contradicted his usual ruthless dominance.

In her sleep, Keeley seemed to sense something. Her brows pulled together slightly, and the fingers of her free hand twitched.

Holland instantly flipped his hand over and wrapped her small, cool hand entirely within his large, warm palm.

In the middle of this quiet moment, Holland's private phone sitting on the marble nightstand suddenly let out a harsh vibration.

Holland's eyes turned to ice. He quickly picked up the device and glanced at the caller ID. It was an unknown number, but his photographic memory immediately recognized the digits—it was the exact same contact number printed on the tacky gold-embossed resume Emilee Harper had shoved in his face earlier.

To prevent the noise from waking Keeley, he pressed answer and brought the phone to his ear without saying a word.

Emilee's sickeningly sweet, fake voice immediately came through the speaker, calling him "Mr. Klein."

She aggressively tried to sell herself, hinting at an invitation to dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant tonight.

Then, her tone turned sly and conspiratorial. "I'm sure you appreciated Keeley's technical work, but between you and me, Mr. Klein, a junior who only knows how to bury her head in code will never help you network or close deals. Some of us actually understand how to move in your world."

Hearing this, the corner of Holland's mouth curled into a smile of pure, cruel contempt.

He turned his head to look at Keeley, who was still sleeping peacefully. A fierce protectiveness surged in his chest.

Using a low, arrogant, and freezing tone, he mercilessly cut off Emilee's rambling.

"I don't need networking advice from a stranger who confuses a resume with a dinner invitation," he said. "And the fact that you think my interest in her code is technical tells me you understand nothing—neither code, nor me."

He coldly announced that his time was extremely expensive, and he had absolutely zero tolerance for desperate, talentless climbers attempting to bypass professional boundaries.

"If you ever approach me—or Keeley Jackson—again, I will personally ensure your resume is blacklisted from every tech firm on the East Coast," he stated softly, his voice dripping with lethal warning.

Emilee was so shocked she lost the ability to speak, only managing to let out an awkward, choked sound.

Holland didn't give her a single second to recover. He pressed the end call button.

With practiced ease, he dragged her number straight into the block list, permanently cutting off the annoying woman's fantasies.

Having disposed of the trash, he tossed the phone back onto the table and returned his full attention to Keeley.

He lowered his head and pressed a soft, highly restrained kiss right above the vein on the back of her hand.