Corbin stared at the pink phone resting on the leather seat.
He reached back and picked it up. The smooth metal casing still held a faint trace of Fallon's body heat. His jaw tightened. His immediate, violent instinct was to roll down the window and hurl the device into the passing traffic.
Instead, he pulled his own phone from his pocket, unlocked it, and hit the speed dial for his assistant.
"Take Mrs. Terrell's phone up to her," Corbin ordered, his voice clipped.
"Sir," the assistant replied through the speaker, his tone hesitant. "I just watched her get into the private elevator. She looked extremely exhausted. She is likely already asleep. Going up to ring the bell now might cause an unnecessary disturbance."
Corbin's fingers drummed a rapid, impatient rhythm against the steering wheel. Throw it away? No, there might be evidence on it-texts, call logs that could prove she hit Ashely intentionally. Send it up? He absolutely refused to step foot in that penthouse tonight and look at her face again.
Suddenly, the screen of the pink phone lit up in his hand.
A text message notification popped up on the lock screen. The sender was Jax Vance.
Are you home yet? I booked the VIP room at Apotheke. Brought some fresh new boys with me. Guaranteed to make you smile! Get your ass over here now!
Apotheke.
Corbin knew the place. It was a highly exclusive, "prescription-drug" themed private club in downtown Manhattan. It was notorious among the city's elite for its absolute privacy and its wild, unhinged parties.
The temperature in the Maybach seemed to drop ten degrees in a single second.
Corbin's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. His earlier sarcastic comment in the car hadn't just been a hypothetical insult. It was a prophecy.
He could picture it perfectly. He could see Fallon reading that text, shedding her ruined clothes, slipping into a tight dress, and rushing downtown to drown her "guilt" in champagne and men.
A sudden, violent surge of heat erupted in his chest. It was a blinding, irrational anger that he didn't bother to analyze.
He gripped the steering wheel, slammed his foot on the brake, and violently jerked the wheel to the left. The heavy Maybach performed an illegal U-turn in the middle of Park Avenue, the tires squealing against the pavement. He wasn't driving back to the hospital. He was speeding straight toward downtown.
At that exact moment, inside the penthouse, Fallon was standing in her living room.
Her housekeeper, Patty O'Malley, stood nervously by the door. "Madam, Mr. Vance is downstairs in the lobby. He says he's here to take you out to clear your head."
Fallon opened her mouth to say no, to tell Patty to send him away. But before she could speak, the private elevator dinged, and Jax burst into the room.
"You are not sitting here alone in the dark overthinking this!" Jax yelled, marching right up to her. He grabbed a heavy cashmere coat from the sofa and practically threw it over her shoulders. "Come on. I'm taking you somewhere good."
Half an hour later, Fallon found herself sitting in the darkest, most expensive VIP booth at Apotheke.
The heavy bass of the music vibrated through the floorboards, rattling her teeth. The air smelled of expensive gin and burning herbs. Surrounding her in the plush velvet booth were five incredibly handsome, young male escorts.
"See?" Jax yelled over the music, gesturing grandly to the men. "I brought you 'Aspirin', 'Ibuprofen', 'Morphine'... Guaranteed to cure whatever hurts!"
Fallon let out a short, breathless laugh. It was the first time her facial muscles had formed a smile all day.
She leaned back against the velvet cushions. She held a crystal flute of champagne in her hand, but she hadn't taken a single sip. She felt completely detached from her body. She just wanted the noise to drown out the thoughts in her head.
A blonde boy sitting next to her-Jax had introduced him as Cade Ryder-leaned in close. He gently picked up a soft throw blanket from the back of the sofa and draped it carefully over Fallon's bare legs. He smiled at her, his eyes soft, leaning in to ask if she needed water.
Fallon shook her head slightly and offered him a polite, tired smile.
BANG.
The heavy, soundproof door of the VIP booth was violently kicked open.
The deafening roar of the main club floor rushed into the room, followed immediately by a towering silhouette.
Corbin Mcgowan stood in the doorway. The neon lights from the hallway backlit his broad shoulders, casting his face in deep, terrifying shadow.
The air in the booth instantly froze.
Corbin's eyes swept the room like a physical laser. When his gaze landed on the sofa-on Fallon leaning back, surrounded by five male escorts, with one of them intimately adjusting a blanket over her lap-the anger in his eyes solidified into pure, black ice.
Jax was the first to react. He jumped up, stepping between Corbin and Fallon. "Mr. Mcgowan? What the hell are you doing here?"
Corbin didn't even look at Jax. His eyes were locked onto Fallon.
Fallon's breath hitched. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She stared at him, completely paralyzed by the suddenness of his appearance.
Corbin raised his right hand. He was holding her pink phone. His voice cut through the heavy bass of the club music, sharp and deadly cold.
"I came to return your phone," Corbin said. "But it seems you are far too busy to need it."
He flicked his wrist. He threw the phone.
It landed on the plush velvet carpet with a soft, almost inaudible puff, its silence more insulting than any loud noise could ever be.
Corbin stared down at her. His chest heaved once. "You really have absolutely no shame."
