The termination letter landed on Breanna's desk with a sharp slap.
Ken Kaplan, the General Manager, didn't bother to look up. "You violated the non-disclosure agreement and employee code of conduct. Pack your locker and get out."
Breanna's heart hammered. "Mr. Kaplan, Maria sent me up there. I didn't light that incense. Check the cameras—"
Kaplan slammed his hand on the desk. "That's Mr. Finch's private residence. You crossed a line with the owner of this hotel. You're lucky he didn't have you arrested."
No severance. No final paycheck. Her grandmother's heart medication bill flashed through her mind.
She grabbed the letter and ran.
She sprinted down the back stairwell into the underground VIP parking garage, her breath burning in her throat. A black, armored Maybach was pulling out of its private bay.
Breanna didn't think.
She slipped through the staff exit just as the security gate ground shut, ducked past the guards' blind spot, and threw herself directly in front of the massive grille where the ramp narrowed, arms spread wide.
The driver slammed the brakes. Tires shrieked against concrete.
The heavy bumper stopped one inch from her kneecaps.
The tinted rear window rolled down slowly. Elliot's profile appeared, carved from ice.
Breanna marched to the side of the car. She slapped the termination letter against the bulletproof glass. "Why are you destroying my life? You fired me for something I didn't do!"
Elliot didn't turn his head. His eyes stayed fixed forward. "I handle billion-dollar acquisitions before breakfast. I don't waste memory space on people who throw themselves in front of my car."
The arrogant dismissal hit like a physical blow.
"You're a monster," she spat. "You think because you were born with money, you can just step on people? You ruin lives without even blinking."
The air in the garage thinned dangerously.
Elliot's jaw tightened. He didn't move. Didn't look at her. His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "Women like you—who use their bodies as shortcuts—are the ones ruining their own lives."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out an antibacterial wipe, and slowly, deliberately, wiped his fingers—the ones that had never touched her.
"If I ever see your face in this city again, I will make sure you can't even get a job scrubbing toilets."
The window rolled up.
"Drive," his muffled voice ordered.
The engine roared. The car sped past her, exhaust blowing the hem of her cheap skirt.
The termination letter fluttered in the wind and landed in a puddle of dirty oil.
Breanna stood alone in the freezing garage. She dug her fingernails into her palms until the skin broke. She took a deep, shuddering breath.
She was not going to let this man break her.
