The taxi hit a pothole in Brooklyn, and Joanna's teeth clicked together with the impact. Pain shot through her pelvis, sharp and immediate, and she bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. She looked away, out the window, at the familiar streets of her neighborhood.

They were wrong. Everything was wrong. The bodega on the corner, the laundromat with its flickering neon sign, the fire escape where Mrs. Chen hung her laundry-they all looked like props in a play she'd already left. Like she'd crossed some invisible line last night, and now she was walking around in a world that looked like hers but wasn't.

"Here okay?" The driver's voice cut through her thoughts.

Joanna looked up. Her building. The brick facade was crumbling in places, the paint on the door peeling, but it was hers. Her sanctuary. The place where she was Joanna Santana, responsible adult, not the girl who woke up in stranger's beds with blood on the sheets.

"Yes. Thank you."

She fumbled for cash, shoved it at him without counting, and practically fell out of the taxi. The morning air was cold against her legs, her dress riding up in ways that made her painfully aware of what she wasn't wearing underneath. She tugged it down, clutched her purse to her chest, and limped toward her door.

The key. Where was her key?

She dumped her purse on the stoop, hands shaking, rifling through receipts and lip balm and the detritus of her ordinary life. Her fingers closed on metal. She pulled it out, tried to fit it in the lock, missed, tried again.

"Joanna?"

The voice came from behind her. From the door that was already opening.

Joanna spun around. Leah stood in the doorway, coffee mug in hand, her dark hair still wet from the shower. Her roommate's eyes traveled over Joanna's appearance with the speed of someone cataloging evidence at a crime scene.

"Where the hell have you been?"

The question was sharp. Accusing. Joanna felt her face heat up, felt the lie forming on her tongue before she could stop it.

"I-at a friend's. Sarah from the gallery. We had wine, and I fell asleep on her couch. My phone died."

The words came out too fast. Too rehearsed. Leah's eyes narrowed.

"Sarah." She said the name like she was tasting it. "The one with the studio in Queens?"

"Yes. Her."

"Your dress is on inside out."

Joanna looked down. The seams of her red silk dress were visible, the tag scratching at the back of her neck. She hadn't noticed. In her panic to escape, she hadn't noticed.

"I was in a hurry. I have to-" She pushed past Leah, into the apartment, heading for the bathroom. "I need to shower. I'm late for work."

"Joanna." Leah's hand closed on her arm. Not hard, but firm enough to stop her. "Your neck."

Joanna's free hand flew to her throat. She felt them then-the raised welts, the tender spots where his teeth had been, where his mouth had marked her. Hickeys. She had hickeys. She was twenty-three years old and she had hickeys like a teenager.

"It's nothing. A rash. Allergic reaction."

"To Sarah's cat?"

"To the wine. I have to go."

She wrenched free, stumbled into the bathroom, and slammed the door. The lock clicked. She leaned against it, breathing hard, and finally let herself look in the mirror.

The woman staring back at her was a stranger.

Her mascara had smeared into raccoon masks under her eyes. Her lipstick was gone, replaced by swollen lips that looked like they'd been kissed raw. And her neck-God, her neck was a roadmap of bruises, purple and red marks that screamed sex, that announced to anyone who looked exactly what she'd been doing.

Joanna turned on the faucet. Splashed cold water on her face. Once. Twice. Three times. It didn't help. She still looked like what she was. A woman who had spent the night being fucked senseless by a man whose name she didn't know.

She stripped off the dress. It fell to the tile floor in a puddle of red silk, and she stepped out of it like she was shedding skin. Her reflection showed her everything she didn't want to see-the marks on her breasts, the fingerprints on her hips, the way her thighs trembled when she tried to stand still.

She turned on the shower. Hot. As hot as she could stand. She stepped under the spray and let it hit her, let it pound against her shoulders and her back and the place between her legs that still ached with every heartbeat.

She scrubbed. Soap. Loofah. More soap. She washed between her legs and her fingers came away with something that wasn't quite blood, something that made her stomach roll. She washed again. And again. Until her skin was pink and raw and she could pretend she was clean.

But she wasn't. She could still feel him. The weight of him. The stretch of him inside her. The way he'd said her name in the dark like it was something precious.

Joanna turned off the water. Stepped out. Wrapped herself in the thin towel that was all their crappy apartment provided.

She had to move. Had to think. Had to figure out what came next.

She dressed in her most ordinary clothes. Jeans. A gray sweater. Underwear that covered everything, cotton and practical. She pulled her hair back in a ponytail, hiding the tangles, and applied concealer to her neck with a hand that still shook.

There. Normal. She looked normal.

Except for her eyes. They were too wide. Too bright. The eyes of someone who had seen something she couldn't unsee.

Joanna grabbed her bag. Her keys. Her phone-she plugged it in for thirty seconds, just enough to get a sliver of battery. She had to get to work. Had to pretend. Had to rebuild her life around the crater that last night had left in its center.

She opened the bathroom door. Leah was waiting in the hallway, arms crossed.

"We need to talk."

"Later. I'm really late."

"Joanna." Leah's voice softened. "Did something happen? Did someone hurt you?"

The question hung in the air. Joanna thought of the blood on the sheets. The scratches on his back. The way she'd begged him for more.

"No," she said. "Nothing happened. I'm fine."

She pushed past her roommate, out the door, down the stairs. The morning air hit her face, cold and clean, and she walked toward the subway with steps that were almost steady.

She was fine. She would be fine. She just had to keep moving.

It wasn't until she was standing on the platform, waiting for the train, that she remembered. The thing she should have thought of first. The thing that made her hand fly to her stomach, pressing against the flat plane through her sweater.

Protection. He'd used protection-she remembered the tear of foil, the moment of pause before he'd pushed inside her. But that was before. Before the second time, or the third, when she'd been half-asleep and he'd been hard against her hip, when she'd reached for him without thinking-

The train roared into the station. Joanna didn't move. She stood frozen on the platform, her mind racing, calculating, terror building in her chest like a physical weight.

She needed a pharmacy. Now.

---

The CVS on Atlantic Avenue was bright. Too bright. Fluorescent lights that made Joanna feel exposed, visible, like every person in the store could look at her and know exactly why she was there.

She found the aisle by memory, not by looking at signs. Family planning. The words were clinical, polite, nothing like the panic that was making her heart race.

She stood in front of the display. So many options. Condoms. Lubricants. Pregnancy tests. And there, on the bottom shelf, behind a plastic security case that required a clerk to unlock it-

Plan B.

Joanna reached for it. Her hand was shaking so badly she knocked over a box of condoms, sent them scattering across the floor. She knelt to pick them up, cheeks burning, and heard footsteps approaching.

"Need help finding something?"

The clerk was young. Maybe twenty. He had a name tag that said BRENDA but he was clearly not Brenda, clearly covering someone's shift, clearly looking at Joanna with the kind of knowing sympathy that made her want to die.

"No. I'm fine. Thank you."

She grabbed the Plan B box-emergency contraceptive, for use within 72 hours, not for regular birth control-and practically ran to the self-checkout. The machine beeped. Demanded an employee override for the locked case.

Brenda-not-Brenda appeared again, key in hand. He unlocked the case, scanned the box, and looked at Joanna with eyes that were trying not to judge.

"These work best if you take them as soon as possible," he said. "There's a water fountain by the bathrooms if you need it."

Joanna shoved her credit card into the machine. Didn't meet his eyes. "I'm fine."

The receipt printed. She grabbed the box, shoved it in her bag, and walked out of the store with steps that were too fast, too desperate. She turned the corner, into the alley behind the building, and ripped open the packaging with fingers that wouldn't cooperate.

One pill. Small. White. Innocuous.

She put it on her tongue. It tasted like nothing. Like chalk. She swallowed dry, felt it catch in her throat, forced it down with a swallow that hurt.

Done. It was done. She was safe.

Joanna leaned against the brick wall, breathing hard. The alley smelled like garbage and exhaust, but she didn't care. She was safe. The pill would work. She wouldn't be pregnant with a stranger's baby, wouldn't have to explain to her mother-God, her mother-wouldn't have to watch her carefully constructed life crumble into something unrecognizable.

She pushed off the wall. Took a step toward the street.

Pain.

It hit her low in her abdomen, sharp and cramping, like the worst period she'd ever had concentrated into a single moment. Joanna doubled over, gasping, her hand flying to her stomach. The wall was there, cold brick against her palm, and she leaned into it, breathing through her mouth, waiting for it to pass.

It didn't pass. The pain ebbed, then surged again, worse this time, radiating down her thighs, up into her lower back. She felt wetness between her legs-not blood, not yet, but something that made her panic spike all over again.

She needed a doctor. She couldn't go to her regular clinic, couldn't explain this to Dr. Patterson who'd known her since she was sixteen. She needed somewhere anonymous. Somewhere no one knew her history. A private clinic on the Upper East Side felt like another world, so far removed from her own that it might as well be anonymous. And her insurance, thank God, would cover it.

Joanna pulled out her phone. The battery was dying, but she had enough to search. Private clinic. Upper East Side. Gynecology. Same-day appointments.

The first result was a name she didn't recognize. Marion Evans, MD. Upper East Side Women's Health. The website showed photos of a waiting room that looked like a luxury hotel lobby, all velvet and marble and soft lighting.

Joanna clicked the appointment button. Selected the first available slot. Entered her insurance information-thank God for the gallery's mediocre but functional health plan-and received a confirmation text.

Eleven-thirty. Two hours from now.

She could make it. She had to make it.

Joanna straightened. The pain was still there, a dull throb now, manageable. She walked toward the subway with one hand pressed to her stomach, trying to look normal, trying to be normal.

Behind her, in the penthouse of the Plaza Hotel, Cain Reed stood naked in front of the shattered mirror of his bathroom. Blood dripped from his knuckles, mixing with the water from the faucet, swirling down the drain in patterns that looked like abstract art.

He didn't feel the pain. He was too focused on the image in his mind. The girl. The way she'd felt. The way she'd run.

His phone was on the counter. Alex's voice came through the speaker, professional, apologetic.

"We have her name, sir. Joanna Santana. But the corridor cameras were down for maintenance last night. We have no footage of her departure."

Cain's jaw tightened. He picked up a shard of mirror, watched his own reflection fracture into a dozen pieces.

"She just took Plan B at a CVS on Atlantic Avenue and is now in agonizing pain. She's looking for a doctor. My mother's clinic, Upper East Side Women's Health, has an opening at eleven-thirty. Make sure she's the one who gets it."

The Upper East Side Women's Health clinic was exactly what the website promised. Joanna stepped through the glass doors and into a world of hushed voices and expensive perfume. The waiting room was empty except for a woman in the corner, her face hidden behind a copy of Vogue, her handbag-a Birkin, Joanna's brain supplied automatically, probably worth more than Joanna made in a year-resting on the seat beside her like a guard dog.

Joanna approached the desk. The receptionist looked up with a smile that was practiced, professional, and somehow still warm.

"Joanna Santana? I see you're here for an urgent consultation. Dr. Evans is running slightly behind, but it shouldn't be more than a few minutes."

Joanna nodded. Her mouth was dry. She'd taken a taxi-couldn't face the subway, not with the pain ebbing and flowing like a tide she couldn't control-and now her last sixty dollars were gone, spent on a ride that had taken her further from her life with every block.

She sat on one of the velvet chairs. It was too soft, too enveloping. It made her feel small. The woman with the Birkin didn't look up from her magazine.

The minutes ticked by. Joanna checked her phone-dead now, completely, the screen black and unresponsive. She checked the clock on the wall. Eleven-forty. Eleven-fifty.

The pain came back, sharper this time, and she pressed her hand to her stomach, trying to breathe through it. The receptionist noticed. Her smile flickered.

"Dr. Evans will be right with you, Ms. Santana. Can I get you water?"

"No. Thank you."

Twelve o'clock. The door to the inner offices opened, and a woman emerged-tall, silver-haired, elegant in a way that made Joanna feel even more out of place. Dr. Evans, presumably. She was on her phone, frowning, speaking in rapid, clipped tones.

"I don't care what the board says, I'm a physician, not a-" She stopped. Looked at Joanna. Her expression softened, slightly. "Yes. Fine. I'll be there by two. But this is the last time."

She ended the call. Turned to the receptionist. "Maya, I have to run to the hospital. Emergency consult. Can you reschedule my afternoon?"

"Of course, Dr. Evans. But Ms. Santana is here for an urgent-"

Dr. Evans looked at Joanna again. Her eyes were sharp, assessing, the kind of eyes that missed nothing. "Yes. I see. Well, I'm afraid you'll have to reschedule, Ms.-"

"Santana." Joanna stood. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her pelvis, and she swayed. "Please. I really need to be seen today. I can wait. However long it takes."

Dr. Evans's expression softened further. She was kind, Joanna realized. The kind of doctor who had gone into women's health because she actually cared about women. It made Joanna want to cry.

"I'm sorry. This is a genuine emergency. But-" She paused. Looked toward the inner offices. "My son is here. He's not a gynecologist, but he's a physician. Board certified. He did his residency in emergency medicine before changing careers. He can at least perform an initial assessment. And I'll review the results personally when I return."

Joanna's stomach dropped. "Your son?"

"Dr. Cain Reed. He's-" Dr. Evans's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, frowned. "He's finishing up some paperwork. Maya will show you back in five minutes."

She was gone before Joanna could protest, swept out the door in a cloud of expensive scent and professional urgency.

Joanna sat back down. Her hands were shaking. A male doctor. She hadn't thought-she'd assumed, with a women's health clinic, with Dr. Marion Evans-

But she was in pain. She was scared. And she couldn't afford to go somewhere else, to start this process over, to explain to another receptionist why she needed to be seen urgently.

Five minutes. She could do this. It was medicine. Clinical. Professional. It didn't matter that he was a man.

The door opened again. Maya, the receptionist, smiled at her. "Ms. Santana? Dr. Reed will see you now."

Joanna followed her down a hallway lined with framed diplomas and soft watercolor paintings. The examination rooms were at the end, doors closed, names on plaques. Maya stopped at the last one.

"Change into the gown, please. The opening goes in the back. Dr. Reed will be in shortly."

She left. Joanna was alone.

The room was warm. Too warm. She looked at the examination table with its paper covering, the stirrups folded against its sides, the lamp mounted on the wall. She'd been in rooms like this before. Annual exams. Pap smears. The clinical indignity of spreading her legs for a stranger while making small talk about the weather.

But never like this. Never with the memory of last night still raw in her body, still aching with every step.

Joanna undressed. Folded her jeans and sweater neatly on the chair-habit, always neat, always organized-and pulled on the blue paper gown. It crinkled when she moved. It didn't cover enough. Her ass was cold against the paper sheet as she climbed onto the table, as she lay back and put her feet in the stirrups.

The position was vulnerable. Exposed. She stared at the ceiling, counting the tiles, trying not to think about what was coming.

Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Male. Not the quick, efficient tap of nurse's shoes.

The door opened.

"Ms. Santana."

The voice stopped her heart.

It was low. Controlled. Familiar in a way that made every hair on her body stand up. Joanna's head snapped toward the door, and she saw him-

White coat. Stethoscope. Dark hair that was slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it. Gray eyes that locked onto hers with the intensity of a predator spotting prey.

It was him.

The man from last night. The stranger. The voice in the dark that had said her name like a prayer and a curse.

Joanna's mouth opened. No sound came out. Her brain was screaming, run, hide, this isn't happening, but her body was frozen, pinned to the examination table by the weight of his gaze.

He stepped into the room. Closed the door behind him. The click of the latch was loud in the silence.

"Lie back, please." His voice was professional. Detached. Nothing like the rough growl she remembered from the dark. "I need to complete the examination."

Joanna didn't move. Couldn't move. "You-" Her voice was a whisper. "You're not-"

"Dr. Cain Reed." He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, the snap of elastic against skin making her flinch. "At your service."

He approached the table. Joanna tried to sit up, to cover herself, but her arms wouldn't cooperate. He was between her legs in three strides, his height putting him in a position to see everything-the paper gown rucked up around her hips, her knees trembling in the stirrups, the most private parts of her exposed to his clinical, terrifying gaze.

"Your chart says you're experiencing pain." He picked up her file, scanned it with eyes that gave nothing away. "Post-coital tearing. Severe enough to warrant urgent consultation."

Joanna felt her face burn. She wanted to die. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. She wanted-

"Look at me."

The command was soft. Unmistakable. Joanna's eyes found his despite every instinct screaming at her to look away.

"You ran." He said it like a diagnosis. Like he was commenting on a symptom. "This morning. From my bed. Without a word."

"I-" Joanna's voice cracked. "I didn't know-this isn't-"

"Isn't what?" He set down the chart. His gloved hands found her knees, pressed them wider in the stirrups. "Isn't appropriate? We passed appropriate twelve hours ago, wouldn't you say?"

The light clicked on. Bright, clinical, illuminating everything. Joanna squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, I can't-"

"You can." His voice was closer now. She felt his breath against her inner thigh, hot through the latex of his gloves. "And you will. Because I'm the only one who knows exactly where it hurts, aren't I?"

His fingers touched her. Not inside, not yet, just a gentle pressure against the swollen, tender flesh that made her gasp and arch away from the contact.

"Sensitive," he murmured. "As I suspected."

Joanna's hands found the edges of the examination table, gripped until her knuckles turned white. "You're not-your mother said-you're not even a gynecologist."

"No." The admission came without shame. "I'm an investor. A businessman. But I am a physician, Ms. Santana. And more importantly-" His fingers pressed deeper, finding the exact spot where she ached, where she burned. "I'm the man who did this to you. Which makes me uniquely qualified to treat it."

Joanna's sob escaped before she could stop it. Humiliation and something else-something traitorous that responded to his touch despite everything-warred in her chest.

"Why?" she managed. "Why are you doing this?"

She felt him shift. Felt the heat of his body closer, closer, until his mouth was against her ear and his words were for her alone.

"Because you ran." A whisper. A promise. "And I don't like losing what's mine."

The word hung in the air between them. Mine. Like she was property. Like the silk sheets he'd ruined, the hotel room he'd paid for, the life she'd tried to rebuild in the twelve hours since she'd escaped him.

Joanna's eyes flew open. She tried to sit up, to confront him, but his hand was on her stomach now, pressing her back against the table with a gentleness that was somehow more controlling than force would have been.

"Don't move." His voice was still that clinical mask, but she could hear the edge beneath it. The same edge she'd heard in the dark, when he'd been inside her, when he'd made her scream. "The examination isn't complete."

"You're not examining me." Joanna's voice shook, but she forced the words out. "You're-you're torturing me. This isn't medicine."

His fingers paused. She felt the slight withdrawal, the moment of consideration. Then he straightened, stepped back, and she was cold where his warmth had been.

"You're right." He pulled off the gloves with a snap that made her flinch. "This isn't medicine. This is retribution."

He walked to the counter. Washed his hands with methodical thoroughness, his back to her. Joanna watched the muscles move under his white coat, remembered how they'd felt under her hands, how they'd bunched and strained as he'd-

She cut off the memory. She had to get out. Had to run. But her clothes were across the room, and he was between her and the door, and her body was still throbbing with a pain that made standing feel impossible.

He turned. Dried his hands on a paper towel. His expression was composed now, professional, but his eyes-his eyes were still that storm-gray she'd seen in the dark, still hungry.

"Get dressed." He nodded toward her clothes. "We'll continue this conversation in my office."

"I don't want to-"

"Ms. Santana." The interruption was sharp. Final. "You came here seeking treatment. I've examined you. I have a diagnosis and a treatment plan. Whether you choose to hear it is your decision. But-" He paused, his hand on the door handle. "If you walk out of this room without listening, I will find you again. And next time, I won't be wearing a white coat."

The door closed behind him.

Joanna lay frozen for a long moment, breathing hard. The threat was clear. Explicit. She should run-should grab her clothes and flee through the window if necessary-but her body was a traitor, still responding to his voice, his presence, the memory of what he'd made her feel.

She sat up. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her pelvis, and she bit her lip, hard. The paper gown crinkled as she climbed down from the table, as she crossed to the chair where her clothes waited.

She dressed quickly. Jeans were a mistake-the pressure against her swollen flesh made her gasp-but she pulled them on anyway, buttoned them with fingers that shook. The sweater was easier. Soft. Familiar. Armor against whatever came next.

She found his office by following the sound of his voice. He was on the phone, speaking in low, rapid tones that she couldn't quite make out. She knocked. The voice stopped.

"Enter."

The office was smaller than she'd expected. A desk, two chairs, bookshelves lined with medical texts and what looked like financial reports. He sat behind the desk, white coat gone, wearing a dark shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves, revealing forearms that she remembered gripping, scratching, holding on to as if he were the only solid thing in the world.

"Sit."

Joanna sat. The chair was leather, expensive, and it made her feel like a supplicant. Like she was interviewing for a job she didn't want.

He slid a piece of paper across the desk. She looked down. A prescription. Neosporin. Ibuprofen. And beneath them, in handwriting that was aggressive even in its elegance, three words that made her stomach drop.

Strict abstinence.

"I don't-" Joanna looked up. "I don't need you to tell me that."

"No?" He leaned back in his chair. "Then perhaps you can explain why you came to a gynecologist's office less than twenty-four hours after your first sexual encounter. An encounter, I might add, that left you sufficiently injured to require medical attention."

Joanna felt her face burn. "That's none of your business."

"You made it my business when you climbed into my bed." His voice was level, but she could hear the anger beneath it. The same anger she'd felt in his hands last night, the controlled violence that had somehow translated into pleasure. "When you let me inside you. When you screamed my name-"

"I didn't know your name!"

"Exactly." He leaned forward, hands flat on the desk. "You let a stranger fuck you, Ms. Santana. You gave me your virginity without knowing who I was, what I was, whether I was dangerous. And then you ran before I could wake up, before I could-" He stopped. Jaw tightening.

"Before you could what?" Joanna's voice was shaking, but she forced herself to meet his eyes. "Trap me? Control me? I'm not yours. I was never yours. It was one night. A mistake."

"A mistake." He said the word like he was tasting it. "Is that what you tell yourself? That the way you responded to me, the way you came apart under my hands-that was a mistake?"

Joanna stood. She couldn't do this. Couldn't sit in this room with this man who knew her body better than she did and listen to him dissect the most vulnerable night of her life.

"I'm leaving."

"Sit down."

"I said-"

He moved. Faster than she could react, he was around the desk, his hand closing on her arm, spinning her to face him. The wall was at her back. His body was against her front. She was trapped again, pinned again, and her traitorous heart was racing with something that wasn't entirely fear.

"You don't get to run this time." His voice was low, intimate, his mouth inches from hers. "You don't get to disappear and pretend it never happened. I felt you, Joanna. I felt you come around me. I felt you break. That belongs to me. You belong to me."

"I don't-"

His free hand found her chin, forced her to look at him. "If I find out you've been with anyone else. If I so much as smell another man on your skin-" His thumb pressed against her lower lip, hard enough to hurt. "I will destroy him. And then I will punish you."

Joanna's breath came in short gasps. The threat should have terrified her. It did terrify her. But beneath the terror was something else, something that responded to his possessiveness with a heat that made her ashamed.

"You're insane," she whispered.

"Probably." His mouth curved, not quite a smile. "But I'm also the man who took your first time. The man who made you feel things you didn't know your body could feel. And I'm not letting you go until you admit that means something."

The door to the office burst open.

"Cain! What in God's name do you think you're doing?"

Joanna jerked away from him, or tried to. His grip on her arm tightened, holding her in place. An older woman stood in the doorway-silver hair, elegant features, the same sharp eyes that Joanna had seen in the examination room.

Dr. Marion Evans. His mother.

"Mother." Cain's voice was calm, but Joanna could feel the tension in his body. "I wasn't expecting you back so soon."

"I can see that." Dr. Evans's gaze traveled from her son to Joanna, taking in their positions, the hand on Joanna's arm, the flush on both their faces. Her expression hardened. "This is my clinic, and that is a patient. Step away from her immediately, or I'm calling security. Release the young woman, Cain. Now."

For a moment, Joanna thought he would refuse. His fingers tightened on her arm, almost painful. Then, slowly, he let go.

Joanna didn't hesitate. She bolted for the door, brushing past Dr. Evans with a mumbled apology she didn't mean. She heard Cain's voice behind her, sharp with command-

"Joanna. Stop."

She didn't stop. She ran down the hallway, through the waiting room, past the startled receptionist and the woman with the Birkin who finally looked up from her magazine. She hit the door with her shoulder, stumbled into the hallway, and kept running.

The elevator was too slow. She found the stairs, took them two at a time despite the pain, the burning, the feeling that she was leaving pieces of herself on every step. She burst out into the lobby, into the street, into the anonymous crowd of the Upper East Side at noon.

She didn't stop until she was three blocks away, leaning against a parking meter, gasping for air.

Her phone was dead. She had no money for a taxi. She was lost in a neighborhood where apartments cost more than she'd make in a lifetime.

But she was free. She'd escaped him. Again.

Joanna closed her eyes and tried to believe that meant something.