Essence stood on the curb, her hands gripping the hem of her scrub top so hard her knuckles turned white. She needed to calm down. She needed to breathe.
In. Out.
The window of the Escalade rolled down with a low hum.
"Your wrist is red," Fielding's voice drifted out. "Don't you want to come in and put some ice on that?"
The fake concern made something snap inside her. Essence spun around.
"Stay the hell away from me!" she screamed.
Fielding didn't drive away. Instead, the side door opened again. A mechanical whirring sound filled the air. A ramp extended from the floor of the SUV, touching the pavement.
Essence watched in horror as Fielding maneuvered his wheelchair down the ramp.
He was getting out. Here. In Queens. In broad daylight.
Passersby slowed down. A woman pushing a stroller stared openly at the man in the bespoke suit rolling onto the cracked sidewalk. He looked like an alien species dropped into a war zone. His movements were jerky, the joystick responding to what looked like a trembling hand. He was selling the image of the invalid billionaire perfectly.
"Are you crazy?" Essence hissed, scanning the windows of her building. "This isn't the Upper East Side. People talk."
Fielding ignored the audience. He rolled right up to her, invading her personal space again.
"Let me see," he commanded.
Before she could retreat, he reached out and grabbed her hand-the same one he had bruised moments ago.
"Fielding, stop!"
"I squeezed too hard," he murmured. He ran his thumb over the red marks on her wrist. The touch was light, almost tender, a jarring contrast to his earlier violence. It was intimate. Too intimate.
Essence tried to yank her hand away, but his fingers were a vice.
Screech.
Tires squealed against the asphalt.
A silver Toyota Camry slammed to a halt at the curb, just feet away from the Escalade. The bumper was dented, held on by duct tape.
Essence's heart stopped.
Nathan.
The driver's door flew open. Nathan stumbled out, still wearing his white coat, a grease-stained paper bag from McDonald's clutched in one hand. He looked exhausted, his eyes rimmed with red from a double shift.
He froze.
He saw them. He saw the man in the wheelchair. He saw the expensive suit.
And he saw Fielding holding Essence's hand.
Nathan's face went slack. The McDonald's bag slipped from his fingers and hit the ground, fries spilling onto the dirty concrete.
"Essence?" Nathan's voice was thin. "What are you doing?"
Essence ripped her hand away from Fielding, hiding it behind her back. "Nathan! It's not what it looks like!"
Nathan rushed forward, positioning himself between Essence and the wheelchair. He puffed out his chest, trying to look imposing, but he looked small next to Fielding's aura of absolute power.
"Who are you?" Nathan demanded, his hands balling into fists. "Why are you touching my fiancée?"
Fielding didn't back down. He looked up at Nathan, his expression shifting into a smirk of pure, distilled arrogance. He looked Nathan up and down, lingering on the scuffed shoes and the cheap watch.
It was a look that reduced a man to a price tag.
"Fiancée?" Fielding chuckled darkly. "Dr. Miller, your information is a bit... outdated."
Nathan blinked, his aggression faltering as he took in the man's face properly for the first time. The sleek black wheelchair. The cut of the jaw. The cold, dead eyes that were plastered on the donor plaque in the lobby of his own hospital.
"Hancock?" Nathan breathed, the name landing heavy and familiar. "The donor? Fielding Hancock?"
Fielding smoothed a non-existent wrinkle on his trousers. "I'm Fielding Hancock. An... old friend of Essence's."
The realization seemed to physically shrink Nathan. He took a half-step back, the instinctual deference to the man who effectively signed his paychecks warring with his jealousy. Hancock. Everyone in New York knew the name. It was on the hospital wing where Nathan worked. It was on the library. It was money. Old, untouchable money.
But then he looked at the black SUV, the bodyguard standing by the door, and back at Essence's terrified face. His insecurity flared into anger.
"I don't care who you are," Nathan spat, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction. "Stay away from her."
Essence grabbed Nathan's arm. "Nathan, please. We're going to be late. Let's just go upstairs."
She tried to pull him toward the building entrance. She needed to get him away. Now.
"Nathan," Fielding said. His voice was calm, carrying effortlessly over the street noise. "Aren't you going to ask Essence to introduce us properly? To tell you about our past?"
Nathan stopped dead. He planted his feet, resisting Essence's pull.
He turned slowly to look at her. "Past?"
Essence felt the blood drain from her face. "Fielding, don't."
"Tell him, Essence," Fielding said, his eyes glittering with malice. "Or should I?"
