Adrien made a subtle motion with his hand. On the screen, the gloved fingers retracted, placing the syringe back on the bedside table.
She slumped back against the cushions, oxygen rushing into her lungs in jagged gasps. Her heart was beating so hard it hurt.
Adrien turned his back on her. He walked to a crystal decanter on a side table and poured a measure of amber liquid. He took a sip, the ice clinking against the glass. The sound was casual, domestic, completely at odds with the psychological torture he had just inflicted.
"You're a monster," she whispered.
"I'm a businessman," he corrected, not turning around. "And you have something I need."
"I have a condition."
He turned then, an eyebrow raised. He looked at her like she was a rabbit trying to negotiate with a wolf. "Do you?"
"Alfred," she said, her voice shaking but her chin high. "His care. I want a full-time, private nurse assigned to him, paid from my personal allowance. And I want to see the reports. Daily."
Adrien stared at her for a long moment. Then he pressed a button on the intercom. "Send them in."
The door slid open. Three lawyers in identical navy suits marched in. They placed a stack of documents on the rolling table and pushed it over her lap. It was thick enough to be a novel.
"Standard Non-Disclosure Agreement," the lead lawyer droned. "Voting Share Proxy. Power of Attorney. And a signed psychiatric evaluation."
"Psychiatric evaluation?" She flipped the page.
"You will live here," Adrien said, stepping closer. "In the East Wing. You will have no contact with the outside world. No phone. No internet. Your recovery requires total isolation."
She read the clause. Clause 14: Voluntary Seclusion for Mental Recuperation. It was a prison sentence disguised as a job offer.
"I'm not signing this," she said, pushing the papers away. "This is slavery."
Adrien finished his drink. He set the glass down. "Alfred's night nurse goes on duty at 9:00 PM. She's... an old friend of the family. Without my call, she follows her standard instructions. With my call, she gets replaced."
He checked his watch. "You have ten seconds."
Tears pricked her eyes. She hated him. She hated him with a violence that frightened her. But she picked up the pen.
Her hand trembled as she hovered over the signature line.
Adrien moved behind her. She felt his heat radiate through the thin silk blouse she wore under her gown. He reached over her shoulder, his large hand engulfing hers, steadying the pen.
"Sign it," he whispered against her ear. His breath ghosted over her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. "You belong to Sargent assets now."
She closed her eyes and signed Clarice Howe.
The lawyers snatched the papers away instantly.
"Get her a room," Adrien ordered, stepping back. "And lock down the exits."
The guest suite was larger than her entire apartment. But it was still a cage.
She stood in the bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. Her hair was matted, her eyes hollow. She stripped off the ruined gown, wincing as the fabric pulled away from the scratches on her arm.
She turned on the shower. The hot water hit her skin, stinging the wounds, washing away the dirt and the smell of the gala.
She scrubbed her skin until it was raw. She wanted to scrub away the feeling of his hand on hers.
She stepped out and wrapped a towel around herself. As she reached for the light switch, a glint of red caught her eye.
High up in the corner, hidden behind a ventilation grate. A camera lens.
She froze. He was watching. Even here. Even now.
A cold fury settled in her gut. She pulled the towel tighter. She looked directly into the lens, her expression hardening.
She raised her hand and flipped him off.
Then she hit the lights, plunging the room into darkness.
In the control room, Adrien watched the screen go black. A small, unamused smile touched his lips.
"Do you want me to remove it, sir?" Cole asked.
"No," Adrien said, leaning back in his chair. "Leave it. I want to see how long she lasts."
