The evening shift ended. Essie stood in front of her metal locker in the cramped changing room, peeling off her scrubs that smelled faintly of bleach and rubbing alcohol.

The head nurse pushed the door open. Her tone left no room for argument. "Essie, tonight is the department dinner. The hospital's primary investor, Mr. Cortez, will be there to discuss next quarter's budget. Everyone must attend to make a good impression."

Essie gripped her locker door. "I really don't feel well," she started to say.

"If you skip team building, I'm docking your monthly bonus," the head nurse snapped, shutting the door.

Essie took the subway from the hospital and walked to a dimly lit, absurdly expensive French restaurant in Midtown Manhattan.

She pushed open the heavy oak door of the private dining room. The space was already packed with her laughing, drinking coworkers.

Essie was wearing a cheap, faded black sweater. She kept her head down and walked straight to the empty chair at the very end of the long dining table.

The second she pulled out her chair and sat down, she heard Maureen and Denise whispering loudly next to her.

"How do you think she affords her brother's medical bills?" Maureen whispered, her voice dripping with malice.

Denise covered her mouth and giggled. "Where does she get the money for his treatments? Look at her clothes, she's not from our world. It's definitely not from a clean source."

Essie's fingers clamped around her glass water goblet. She squeezed it so hard her joints ached, but she kept her eyes glued to the tablecloth, pretending she was deaf.

The oak door was respectfully pushed open by a waiter.

Adelle walked in, her arm looped through Kieran's. She was glowing.

The entire room went silent. Everyone stood up and started clapping.

Kieran handed his cashmere overcoat to the waiter. His dark eyes swept the room and landed with pinpoint accuracy on Essie, huddled in the corner.

He walked to the head of the long table and sat down. Adelle sat pressed against his side. They looked like a king and queen surveying their subjects.

The waiters began serving the food. Tiny, expensive escargot and bottles of vintage red wine were placed on the table.

Adelle raised her crystal wine glass. She elegantly thanked everyone for their wishes and started talking about the massive wedding they were planning in the Hamptons.

Essie kept her head bowed. She mechanically pushed the food around her porcelain plate with her fork. Her stomach was tied in knots; she couldn't swallow a single bite.

Maureen, desperate to kiss up to Adelle, leaned forward and loudly asked Kieran what he thought of the wedding venue.

Kieran leaned back in his chair. He crossed his long legs. He didn't look at Maureen. His eyes stared straight down the length of the table, burning holes into Essie.

Essie felt the crushing weight of his stare. She panicked and jerked her head up, crashing straight into his bottomless, pitch-black eyes.

Kieran's gaze was filled with a lethal warning and a sickening, possessive rage.

Essie's hand jerked violently. The heavy silver fork slipped from her fingers and slammed against the ceramic plate with a loud, piercing clatter.

Every single pair of eyes in the room snapped to Essie. Adelle's perfect eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

Essie frantically snatched the fork off the table. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, her face burning hot.

Kieran let out a sudden, cold laugh. He shoved his chair back and stood up abruptly.

The wooden chair legs scraped harshly against the marble floor. The entire room froze in dead silence.

"I have a cross-border video conference to take," Kieran said coldly. He didn't spare anyone a second glance as he turned and walked toward the door.

Adelle's face stiffened. She reached out to stop him, but Kieran didn't even turn his head. He pulled the door open and walked out.

The atmosphere in the room plummeted below freezing. Suddenly, Essie felt a short, sharp vibration against her thigh. Her phone.

The silence in the private dining room was suffocating. Essie's hands shook as she reached into the pocket of her faded sweater and pulled out her phone.

The screen lit up with a text from an unsaved number: Restroom. Now.

Essie felt a fresh wave of cold sweat soak through her sweater, sticking the cheap fabric to her spine. She knew exactly what Kieran would do if she dared to ignore him.

She stood up so fast her chair wobbled. "My stomach is killing me. I need to use the restroom," she lied to her coworkers, not meeting their eyes.

Ignoring their weird looks, Essie pushed open the heavy oak door and practically sprinted into the dimly lit hallway.

The thick carpet absorbed the sound of her footsteps. The wall sconces cast long, creepy shadows across the corridor.

Essie pushed open the heavy wooden door to the women's restroom. It was completely empty. Soft jazz music played from hidden speakers in the ceiling.

She walked over to the marble sink, reaching out to turn on the cold water to splash her face.

The door to the last stall-the oversized handicap stall-suddenly swung open. A massive, muscular arm shot out.

Before Essie could even scream, a large hand clamped hard over her mouth. She was violently yanked backward into the stall.

Bang. The stall door slammed shut. The sharp click of the deadbolt locking echoed loudly over the jazz music.

Kieran slammed Essie against the freezing tile wall. His massive frame pressed flush against her, completely immobilizing her.

His eyes were blazing with a psychotic fury. "Why wouldn't you look at me at the table?" he demanded in a harsh whisper.

Essie shook her head frantically. She brought her hands up, pushing desperately against his solid chest, letting out muffled whimpers against his palm.

Kieran grabbed both of her wrists with one hand. He wrenched her arms above her head and pinned them flat against the cold tiles.

He lowered his head and crushed his mouth against hers. It wasn't a kiss; it was a brutal punishment. His teeth tore at her lips, forcing her mouth open.

Tears spilled out of Essie's eyes. The pain was sharp. She bent her knee, trying to knee him, but he easily trapped her legs with his own heavy thigh.

Kieran's free hand grabbed the collar of her cheap sweater and yanked it down roughly. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, sucking and biting down hard on her sensitive skin.

Essie squeezed her eyes shut in pure agony. A sharp, stinging pain radiated from her neck. She knew he was deliberately leaving a massive, dark bruise.

Suddenly, the sharp clack-clack of high heels hitting the restroom tiles echoed from outside the stall.

"Kieran?" Adelle's voice rang out as she pushed the main restroom door open.

Essie's entire body went rigid. Her lungs stopped working. Her eyes flew open, staring at Kieran in absolute, paralyzing terror.

Kieran didn't pull away. Instead, a cruel, twisted smirk formed on his lips. He pressed his body even tighter against Essie's, purposefully rubbing the tip of his nose against her cheek.

Adelle's heels stopped right in front of the sinks. The sound of a purse unzipping followed, then the rush of water from the faucet. She was touching up her makeup.

Essie shook like a leaf in a hurricane. Silent tears streamed down her face. She was terrified that even the sound of her heartbeat would give them away.

Adelle's phone suddenly rang. "Yes? I'm coming," she said, her tone annoyed. The water shut off, and her heels clicked away.

The main restroom door swung shut.

Kieran finally removed his hand from Essie's mouth. He raised his thumb and casually wiped a tear from the corner of her eye.

He stared down at her ruined, sobbing state. "My penthouse. Tomorrow at eight PM," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for negotiation. "Or Charles's medical trial is gone."

Kieran unlocked the stall door with a loud click. He adjusted his suit jacket, stepped out of the stall, and walked away without a backward glance.

Essie's legs gave out. She slid down the tile wall, hitting the floor. She wrapped her arms around her knees, desperately covering the throbbing hickey on her neck as she broke down.

Essie stood in the cramped, moldy bathroom of her Queens apartment. She frantically dabbed thick layers of cheap concealer over the dark purple bruise on her neck.

She pulled a tight, high-necked black turtleneck over her head, making absolutely sure the fabric covered Kieran's violent mark. She threw her blue scrubs on over it.

Essie grabbed her worn-out backpack and walked out into the freezing New York night, heading toward the subway station.

By 1:00 AM, the harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room were blinding. Essie pushed a metal medical cart down the aisle between the trauma bays.

Inside her scrub pocket, her phone vibrated aggressively. It didn't stop. She pulled it out just enough to see Kieran's name flashing on the screen.

Essie ground her back teeth together. Her stomach churned with anxiety. She thumbed the mute button, silencing the vibration, and shoved the phone deep into her pocket. She refused to look at it again.

At 3:00 AM, the red trauma alarm on the wall started spinning wildly. The ear-piercing wail of an ambulance siren rapidly approached the bay doors.

The automatic doors slammed open. Paramedics rushed in, pushing a bloody gurney at full speed.

"He was assaulted!" one of the EMTs yelled over the chaos. "Found him near the Washington Square Park. They pushed his wheelchair over! He took a hard fall, multiple lacerations, suspected mild concussion—but he's on blood thinners, so we didn't want to risk a closer facility."

Essie snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves. She grabbed a stack of sterile gauze and ran alongside the attending doctor toward Trauma Room 1.

They shoved the gurney under the massive surgical lights. Essie looked down at the patient groaning in agony, his face covered in a mask of blood.

The stack of gauze slipped from her fingers and hit the linoleum floor with a soft thud.

It was Charles.

Essie's brain flatlined. A high-pitched ringing filled her ears. Her knees buckled, and she grabbed the edge of the metal bed rail to keep from collapsing to the floor.

"Essie! Pressure!" the attending doctor barked, snapping her out of her frozen state.

Essie forced her lungs to take a breath. She grabbed a fresh pack of gauze, her hands shaking violently, and pressed it hard against the deep gash pouring blood on Charles's forehead.

Charles thrashed weakly on the bed. He was half-conscious, spitting out slurred, angry curses through bloodstained teeth.

It took an hour of frantic suturing and bandaging before Charles's vitals stabilized. They wheeled him into the observation ward.

At 6:00 AM, Essie's grueling shift finally ended. She peeled off her blood-splattered isolation gown and threw it in the biohazard bin.

She walked into the observation ward. Charles was awake. He was propped up against the pillows, staring darkly at the ceiling tiles.

Essie went to the front desk, signed his discharge papers, and grabbed a spare folding transport wheelchair from the rack near the exit.

She didn't say a single word as she helped him into the chair and pushed him out the sliding glass doors of the hospital.

The early morning streets of New York were empty and freezing. Essie raised her hand and hailed a passing yellow cab.

The driver got out and helped shove the folded wheelchair into the trunk. Essie carefully helped Charles slide into the backseat.

The cab bounced over a pothole on the ruined Queens asphalt. Charles hissed in pain, his hand flying to his bruised ribs.

Essie turned her head. She looked at his swollen, purple face. "Why?" she asked, her voice trembling uncontrollably. "Why were you fighting?"

Charles turned his head away, staring out the dirty window. He was silent for a long time. His hands balled into tight fists on his lap.

Essie saw his jaw clench, then tremble. She had seen that look before—when they were kids, when their mother's boyfriend would lock him in the closet. He wasn't angry. He was ashamed.

"I know what you think of me," Charles finally said, his voice cracking. "After what I said to you that night... I know you think I meant it."

Essie froze.

"I didn't." He still wouldn't look at her. "I was just... I hate that you're with him. I hate that I can't do anything about it. And I hate myself for taking your money when I know where it comes from. So I called you names because... because it was easier than admitting I'm useless."

A tear slid down his swollen cheek, cutting a clean path through the dried blood.

"Those thugs on the corner," Charles ground out through his teeth. "They were laughing. Calling you a whore who sells herself. And I thought—I thought if I just sat there this time, I'd be no better than them. Than me."

The words hit Essie like a sledgehammer straight to the chest. A tidal wave of suffocating guilt crashed over her, drowning her instantly.

She bit down on her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood. Tears silently spilled over her eyelashes, dropping onto her knees. She gripped the hem of her turtleneck, pulling it tighter around her neck.

The cab pulled up to their rundown apartment building. Essie paid the driver. She pulled her muted phone out of her pocket.

The screen lit up. 50 missed calls from Kieran.

This notice lay there quietly, like a death sentence.