The black SUV tore through the freezing New York night. Rocco tossed June roughly onto the leather backseat.
The vehicle hit a pothole. June's head slammed against the door panel. She did not stir. The darkness of her unconscious state held her in a tight grip.
The smell of harsh bleach and rubbing alcohol flooded her nose. June's eyes snapped open. The blinding white lights of a private hospital room burned her retinas.
She gasped for air. Her hands shot up, her fingers digging into the thin hospital blanket over her chest until her knuckles turned white.
A dull, throbbing ache radiated through her entire body. Her stomach cramped violently. The raw skin on her wrists burned. Her mind instantly linked the torn clothes, the camera, and the physical agony. A wave of nausea hit her. She believed the absolute worst had happened.
The door handle clicked. Aisha, a nurse in dark blue scrubs, pushed the door open. She carried a metal tray holding a syringe of sedative.
June saw the uniform. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She scrambled backward, pressing her spine against the headboard. A shrill scream tore from her throat.
Aisha stopped immediately. She set the tray down and raised both hands in the air, speaking in a soft, steady voice to calm her down.
June shook her head. Her whole body vibrated with terror. Her eyes darted around the sterile room, searching for anything to protect herself.
She lunged toward the nightstand. Her hand closed around a glass water pitcher. She hurled it onto the linoleum floor. The glass shattered into jagged pieces.
June dropped to her knees. She grabbed a sharp, triangular shard of glass. She pressed the pointed edge directly against the skin of her own neck, screaming at Aisha to stay back.
Aisha let out a heavy sigh. She reached over and pressed the call button on the wall. She told June, "Mr. Becker arranged everything before he left hours ago. Your expenses are completely covered by the family account."
The words registered slowly. They were gone. The tension in June's arms broke. The glass shard slipped from her numb fingers, slicing a deep cut across her index finger as it fell.
She collapsed against the side of the bed. Hot tears spilled over her eyelashes. A suffocating blanket of shame wrapped around her throat, choking her.
Aisha stepped forward slowly. She took June's bleeding hand. June did not pull away. She sat there like a hollow shell while the nurse wrapped white gauze around her cut finger.
When the bleeding stopped, June looked up. Her voice was a raspy croak. She asked to borrow a phone.
Aisha pulled a smartphone from her pocket and handed it over. June's fingers shook as she dialed Jessica Cole's private number from memory. Her heart lodged in her throat.
The line clicked open. It was not her mother. The cold, professional voice of Jessica Cole's assistant informed June that the madam was currently preparing to leave for the airport for her honeymoon flight to Paris.
June opened her mouth. No sound came out. The blood in her veins turned to ice.
She handed the phone back to Aisha. Without a word, June reached over and ripped the IV needle out of the back of her hand. Blood instantly welled up and dripped onto the white sheets.
Aisha gasped and reached out to stop her. June shoved the nurse's hands away. She swung her bare feet over the edge of the bed and stepped onto the freezing floor.
She opened the small closet. Her clothes hung there, washed but still torn at the collar. The sight of the ripped fabric made her stomach heave again.
She pulled the clothes on. She walked out of the room. At the end of the hallway, a massive silver crest hung on the wall. The Becker family logo. Her lungs seized. Going to the NYPD would do nothing. The Becker empire owned the city. If she fought back, that video would destroy her life.
June pushed through the hospital's revolving doors. The early morning wind slapped her face. She pulled her thin coat tighter around her chest.
She walked down into the subway station. She rode the rattling train all the way back to her cramped Brooklyn apartment. She unlocked the door, walked straight into the bathroom, and turned the shower handle all the way to cold.
She stepped under the freezing spray fully clothed. She grabbed a stiff bristle brush from the shelf. She scrubbed at her arms, her chest, her stomach. She scrubbed until the skin turned raw and red, trying to wash away dirt that was not there.
Blood began to bead on her collarbone. Her legs gave out. She slid down the wet tile wall and hit the floor of the tub. She pulled her knees to her chest and sobbed until her throat bled.
The water eventually ran out. June stood up. She looked at her pale, bruised face in the foggy mirror. She bit her lower lip until she tasted copper. A dead, numb resolve settled in her eyes.
She dried off. She put on a clean, cheap pencil skirt and a blouse. She grabbed the cardboard tube holding her architectural blueprints from the table. She opened her front door and walked out into the world that demanded she pay rent.
June walked down the street toward the subway station, clutching the blueprints to her chest.
