Abigail pushed through the door of her apartment.
She dropped her bag on the floor and collapsed onto the living room sofa. The adrenaline that had kept her upright in the parking garage completely abandoned her.
Exhaustion crushed her chest.
Her phone, buried in her bag, was vibrating constantly. The news alerts were relentless. Vance Media stock was in a freefall.
She groaned, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes.
She forced herself to stand up. She needed to wash the smell of the hotel, and the smell of Josephus Hodges, off her skin.
She walked into her master bathroom. The bright, clinical lights flickered on.
She turned on the faucet, cupped the freezing water in her hands, and splashed it over her face.
She grabbed a towel, patted her skin dry, and finally looked up into the wide vanity mirror.
She froze.
The towel slipped from her fingers and hit the tile floor.
She leaned over the sink, bringing her face inches from the glass. Her breath fogged the mirror.
Her hand shot up. Her trembling fingers traced the skin on her left cheek.
The scar.
The thick, angry, dark red tissue that had looked like a centipede crawling across her face for her entire adult life... looked different, though not miraculously erased.
The chronic, burning inflammation around the edges was completely gone, leaving the surrounding skin a normal, healthy pale color.
The raised, bumpy texture of the scar tissue was still undeniably there, a jagged ridge across her cheek, but the furious, inflamed red had settled into a dull, stable maroon. The active trauma of the wound seemed neutralized.
She pressed her fingertips hard against the center of the scar.
Nothing.
There was no sharp, stabbing nerve pain. There was no burning sensation.
For the first time in years, she felt absolutely nothing but the pressure of her own fingers.
Her brain spun wildly.
She remembered the dark hotel room. She remembered the terrifying weight of Josephus on top of her.
She remembered his lips pressing against the scar. The weird, electrical hum that had shot through her skin.
The pain had stopped the exact second he touched her.
A horrifying, impossible realization crashed over her.
Josephus Hodges wasn't just a ruthless billionaire. His physical touch was somehow the cure to the agony that had ruined her life.
Abigail's knees gave out. She slid down the vanity cabinet and hit the cold tile floor.
A wave of crushing, suffocating regret slammed into her.
Less than an hour ago, she had stood in a parking garage and thrown a contract at the only man on earth who could heal her. She had insulted him. She had declared war on him.
"You stupid, arrogant idiot," she whispered to the empty room, burying her face in her hands.
She scrambled to her feet and ran back to the living room. She dug her phone out of her bag.
She opened Google and searched for the T.S. Group corporate number.
She dialed it.
"T.S. Group, how may I direct your call?" a polite, robotic voice answered.
"I need to speak to Alex Stone, the executive assistant to Mr. Hodges. It's an emergency."
"I'm sorry, ma'am. Mr. Stone does not take unsolicited calls. Please forward your inquiry to our PR department."
The line clicked dead.
Abigail threw the phone onto the sofa.
The physical wall around a man like Josephus Hodges was impenetrable. You didn't just walk back into his life after throwing his offer in his face.
She began to pace the floor, her mind racing. She needed a way back in. She needed to force a meeting.
Suddenly, her phone lit up on the cushions.
It was an unknown private number.
She snatched it up, hoping it was Alex calling back.
"Hello?"
"Abby... please don't hang up."
It was Preston. His voice was hoarse, ragged, and thick with panic.
"The board is threatening to oust me," Preston begged. "Lorelai hasn't stopped crying. The press is camped outside my house. Abby, you have to help me."
Abigail stopped pacing.
She stared out the window at the Los Angeles skyline.
The panic in her chest vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating ice.
A brilliant, venomous plan formed in her mind.
