Elle woke up on the sofa with a stiff neck. She pushed herself up, her joints aching from the uncomfortable cushions. She walked into her bedroom and opened the small closet.
She pushed aside her cheap cotton shirts and pulled out a conservative, dark navy dress. The thick fabric and loose cut around the waist would hide any slight changes in her body.
She slipped the dress on, applied a thin layer of foundation to hide the dark circles under her eyes, and grabbed her black clutch. She walked out of the apartment and walked two blocks to the subway station.
The train car was packed with sweating commuters. Elle held onto the metal pole, the swaying motion making her stomach roll.
She emerged on the Upper East Side. The air smelled of expensive perfume and clean pavement. She walked up to the heavy glass doors of the Michelin-starred restaurant. The maître d' checked her name and led her across the thick, sound-absorbing carpet toward a private dining room.
Elle pushed the door open. Jan sat at a round table next to a woman dripping in diamonds. Mrs. Molina wore a tailored silk suit, her chin tilted up at a sharp angle.
Jan stood up immediately and pulled out a chair for Elle.
Mrs. Molina's eyes dragged up and down Elle's navy dress. Her lips thinned into a line of pure disdain.
"Good evening, Mrs. Molina," Elle said, sitting down and placing her napkin on her lap.
"Jan tells me you worked as an assistant," Mrs. Molina said. She did not bother to return the greeting. "What exactly does your family do?"
Elle kept her face perfectly smooth. "My mother is retired. We live in Brooklyn."
Mrs. Molina let out a short, breathy laugh that held no humor. "Brooklyn. I see."
Under the table, Jan reached over and placed his warm hand over Elle's cold fingers. He gave a firm squeeze.
A waiter in a white jacket approached the table holding a bottle of vintage champagne. He reached for Elle's glass.
"No, thank you," Elle said quickly. "I am on a strict medication regimen for family planning. Water is fine."
Mrs. Molina's sharp gaze softened slightly at the mention of family planning. She picked up her own glass and took a sip.
Halfway through the appetizer course, the rich smell of truffle oil hit the back of Elle's throat. Her stomach violently contracted. She placed her fork down.
"Excuse me for a moment," Elle said to Jan.
She stood up and walked quickly out of the private room. She found the restroom, pushed through the door, and leaned over the marble sink. She turned on the cold water and splashed it on her wrists, taking deep, ragged breaths until the nausea passed.
She dried her hands with a linen towel, checked her pale reflection, and walked back out into the hallway.
The corridor was dimly lit by wall sconces. As she turned the corner, she slammed hard into a solid chest. The heavy, unmistakable scent of cedarwood and expensive tobacco filled her lungs.
Elle looked up. Cyrus stared down at her, his eyes black and dangerous.
Before she could step back, Cyrus's large hand shot out. His fingers clamped around her wrist like a steel vice.
"What are you doing here?" Cyrus demanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl.
The pressure on her bones sent a sharp ache up her arm. Elle twisted her wrist, trying to break his grip. "Let go of me. I am having dinner with my fiancé's family."
The word 'fiancé' seemed to trigger something violent inside him. Cyrus stepped forward, forcing Elle to stumble backward until her spine hit the silk-lined wall.
"You found a new meal ticket fast," Cyrus sneered, his face inches from hers.
Elle felt the air leave her lungs. "My personal life is none of your business, Cyrus."
Footsteps sounded on the thick carpet. Jan walked around the corner. He stopped, his eyes locking onto Cyrus's hand gripping Elle's wrist. Jan's jaw tightened. He walked straight toward them.
"Is there a problem here?" Jan asked, his voice calm but laced with steel.
Cyrus slowly released Elle's wrist. He turned his head and looked Jan up and down. A cruel, mocking smile twisted his lips.
"So this is the architect," Cyrus said. He looked back at Elle. "Does he know what you used to do on my desk after hours?"
Jan stepped between them, his posture rigid and strictly professional as he blocked Cyrus's view of Elle. "Sir, I believe you have overstepped. Elle is my fiancée, and I ask that you show some basic respect."
Cyrus's eyes darkened. The veins in his neck bulged against his crisp shirt collar. The idea of another man claiming her sent a wave of territorial rage through his blood.
Cyrus took a step toward Jan. The sheer, suffocating aura of a Wall Street predator rolled off him. Jan adjusted his glasses, refusing to step back.
Elle grabbed Jan's arm and pulled him back slightly. She glared at Cyrus. "Do not cause a scene here, Cyrus. Leave us alone."
Cyrus looked at her hand resting protectively on Jan's arm. A flash of raw, wounded fury burned in his eyes.
He let out a cold laugh. "Good luck to you both. You are going to need it."
Cyrus turned on his heel and walked down the corridor, his heavy footsteps fading into the ambient noise of the restaurant.
Elle's knees suddenly gave out. She slumped against the wall.
Jan caught her elbow, holding her upright. His jaw was clenched tight. "What did he just do to you? That wasn't just a 'bad temper,' Elle. That was physical assault. Do we need to call the police?"
Elle swallowed the dry lump in her throat, her hands trembling as she gripped his sleeve. "No, please. Don't call the police, it will only make things infinitely worse. He... he is a maniac with too much power. Let's just go back to the table."
Jan nodded slowly. They walked back to the private room.
Mrs. Molina glared at them as they sat down. "You took your time."
Elle picked up her water glass with a trembling hand. She forced herself to smile, but her heart hammered wildly against her ribs. Cyrus's threat echoed in her ears.
