The transition from the filthy, chaotic subway station to the tranquil, luxurious lobby of the Lenox Hill private wing felt jarring. The air was thick with the smells of money and disinfectant, a cold, unpleasant mingling that made Eleanor nauseous. Her worn-out sneakers clashed incongruously on the gleaming marble floor, making a harsh, jarring sound.
Eleanor kept her head down, avoiding the sharp, professional gazes of the reception nurses. Following the news reports, she located the elevator reserved for VIP suites and slipped inside just as the doors were about to close. Her heart pounded, fear and adrenaline churning in a rapid, frantic rhythm.
The rooftop was quiet, carpeted, with abstract paintings on the walls—paintings that probably cost more than her brother's entire defense fee. Eleanor found the room number—PH-3—and paused. The heavy wooden door was slightly ajar.
She peeked through the crack in the door and saw him. Trent Knight was leaning against a pile of soft pillows, a game controller in his hand, the flickering light from the large screen illuminating his face. An IV bag hung beside the bed, but the clear liquid slowly dripping into his arm looked more like saline solution than some potent medication. He wasn't a victim. He was on vacation.
A burning rage raged within Eleanor. She clenched her fists tightly, her nails digging deep into her palms.
She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.
Trent looked up from the game, his expression shifting from annoyance to surprise, then to a greedy, predatory gaze. His eyes lingered on her, on her face and body, as if she were an unexpected dish on a menu.
“Yo, yo,” Trent said slowly, tossing the game controller onto the bed. “Look what the cat brought. Leo’s sister.”
Eleanor, fighting back trembling hands, walked to the foot of the bed. “I want you to tell the police the truth,” she said, her voice much calmer than she realized. “Tell them you struck first. Say Leo was only acting in self-defense.”
Trent threw his head back and laughed, his arrogant laughter echoing throughout the room. "You're even dumber than him. Why would I do that?"
He dangled his legs off the edge of the bed, casually pulled the IV needle from the back of his hand without even flinching. He stood up, wearing only a pair of silk pajama bottoms, and strode towards her.
Eleanor instinctively took a step back, her courage crumbling instantly. Trent was much taller than she remembered, his presence filling the entire space with a suffocating sense of threat. She retreated until her back pressed against the cold, hard wall.
He reached out and twirled a strand of her hair around his finger, then brought it to his nose and sniffed dramatically. “You smell better than your brother,” he whispered.
Eleanor felt nauseous and slapped his hand away. "Leo is innocent," Eleanor insisted, raising her voice. "Don't do this."
Trent's nonchalant demeanor vanished instantly, his face darkening and his eyes hardening. "I can do whatever I want," he roared. "I can make one phone call and your brother will have to be transferred to a different cellmate at Rikers Island. Do you think he can last a week?"
The threat struck at the deepest fear within Eleanor. Her defenses crumbled instantly. The anger in her eyes was replaced by desperate pleading, and fear enveloped her.
Seeing Eleanor's terrified expression, Trent's lewd smile returned. He braced his hands against the wall on either side of her head, trapping her. The cloying scent of cologne emanating from him was suffocating.
“But,” he said in a low, mysterious voice, “I’m a reasonable person. You want me to drop the charges? Fine. You just have to… be nice to me. Spend a week with me. Let me have some fun.”
The suggestion was so despicable and so vile that it made her feel nauseous.
He leaned closer, his face almost touching hers, his hot, astringent breath spraying onto her skin.
She turned her head, closed her eyes tightly, and raised her hands to press against his bare chest. He was strong, with powerful, well-defined muscles. Panic gripped her throat.
Bang!
Eleanor's eyes snapped open. Trent froze, his lips just inches from hers. They both turned sharply toward the doorway.
The door was kicked open.
Damian Kensington stood in the doorway, radiating murderous rage.
His gaze swept across the scene before him—Trent pinned a terrified Eleanor against the wall. A pure rage brewed deep within his dark eyes.
He moved with astonishing speed, darting across the room. He grabbed Trent's clothes and yanked him back. He threw him to the ground . Trent crashed to the floor with a painful scream.
Trent sat bolt upright, his face filled with shock and fear. "Damian? What's going on?" he stammered, then his voice lowered, becoming pleading. "Cousin... I just..."
cousin.
The word struck Eleanor like lightning, leaving her mind blank. Cousins? They were relatives. Her gaze darted between Damian's angry face and Trent's horrified one, and the terrible truth began to surface. This was a family affair.
Damian didn't look at Trent again; his attention was completely focused on her. He strode forward, suddenly reaching out and gripping her wrist tightly. He held on so tightly she felt like her bones were about to break.
He stared intently at her. "You shouldn't have come here," he said through gritted teeth.
“You’re all cut from the same cloth,” she choked out, trying to break free from his grip. “You monsters!”
He completely ignored her struggles, turned around and roughly dragged her toward the door.
Eleanor stumbled after him, barely able to keep up. The nurses and staff in the hallway stared wide-eyed at the commotion, but no one stepped forward to help. They simply watched as Damian Kensington dragged her away.
