Ethan pulled the heavy suite door closed behind him, the click of the latch echoing in the quiet hallway. The sound was final, a punctuation mark on a regrettable impulse.
He took one of the coffees from Leo Sullivan's outstretched hand, his expression as placid as a frozen lake.
"Morning," Ethan said, his voice even. He took a sip of the black coffee, the heat a welcome jolt.
They started walking toward the elevators, their footsteps silent on the thick carpet.
"So," Leo began, his voice a low conspiratorial murmur. "Who was that? Don't tell me you finally took my advice to blow off some steam."
Ethan's gaze remained fixed on the elevator doors ahead. "A woman who drank too much and got the wrong room. A nuisance."
The words were delivered with such clinical detachment that Leo could only raise an eyebrow. The elevator arrived with a soft chime, and they stepped inside, the doors sliding shut on the penthouse floor. The numbers began their swift descent.
Back in the room, the silence was suffocating. Kassie scrambled out of bed, her head pounding. As her feet hit the floor, a sharp pain shot up from her right ankle. She winced, looking down to see it was red and tender to the touch, already beginning to swell.
Moving carefully, she limped into the cavernous bathroom, the cold marble floor a shock against her bare feet. She stared at her reflection in the mirror-smudged mascara, tangled hair, the faint imprint of a stranger's stubble on her cheek. She felt a wave of self-loathing so intense it made her want to crawl out of her own skin.
She turned on the faucet and splashed her face with handfuls of icy water, trying to wash away the night, the whiskey, the mistake.
Dressing was a frantic, fumbling exercise. She gathered her scattered clothes, pulling them on with trembling hands. She didn't bother with her heels, carrying them as she fled the room by elevator, feeling like a thief escaping the scene of a crime.
Out on the Manhattan street, the morning rush was in full swing. The city's noise was an assault on her senses. She raised a hand, and a yellow cab screeched to a halt in front of her.
She gave the driver her address in Brooklyn, then slumped against the cracked vinyl seat, watching the city blur past the window. The motion of the car made her stomach lurch.
The cab dropped her in front of her walk-up apartment building. The climb up the three flights of stairs was agonizing. Once inside, she stripped off her dress, which now smelled of a stranger's cologne and her own regret, and threw it in the trash. She pulled on a pair of old, soft sweatpants and a faded t-shirt.
Her ankle had swollen significantly, a deep, angry purple blooming around the bone. It was clear she couldn't ignore it. With a sigh of resignation, she grabbed her wallet and keys and headed back out, this time to the nearby Mount Sinai Hospital.
The subway ride was a blur of screeching wheels and anonymous faces. The hospital's emergency room was a chaotic symphony of beeping machines, crying children, and hushed, anxious conversations.
At the triage desk, a tired-looking nurse handed her a clipboard with a stack of forms. Kassie filled out the tedious HIPAA paperwork, her hand shaking slightly as she scrawled her signature.
She spent the next half-hour in a hard plastic chair, watching the relentless drama of the ER unfold. Finally, a nurse called her name.
"Kassie Jensen?"
She followed the nurse down a sterile white hallway into a small, cold examination room. The air smelled of antiseptic and latex. She sat on the edge of the paper-covered examination bed, her hands clutching her purse in her lap.
The door opened, and she looked up, a polite, prepared smile on her face.
The smile froze.
A tall man in a crisp white coat stepped into the room, a chart in his hand. He looked up from the chart, and his cold blue eyes met hers.
It was him. Ethan.
Kassie's entire body went rigid. The blood drained from her face. Of all the doctors, in all the hospitals, in all of New York City, it had to be him.
His expression didn't change. There was no flicker of recognition, no sign that he had been inside her body less than twelve hours ago. He looked at her as if she were just another name on his list, another broken part to be assessed.
He scanned her chart. "Ms. Jensen. Ankle injury."
He snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, the sound loud in the small, silent room. He then moved to the end of the bed and knelt on one knee, his posture all business.
His fingers, cool and clinical, probed the swollen flesh of her ankle. His touch was firm, impersonal, but it sent a jolt through her system. She sucked in a sharp breath, a mixture of pain and a sudden, unwelcome memory of those same hands on her skin in the dark.
"A moderate sprain. You’ll need to keep it elevated, ice it regularly, and I’ll have the nurse fit you with an air splint and crutches. No high heels for a while," he said, his voice flat. He stood up, his height seeming to shrink the already small room.
He made a note on her chart, his movements efficient and detached. He was already turning to leave, his duty done. The white coat swirled around him, a barrier of professionalism she couldn't possibly penetrate.
He paused at the door, and turned his head, looking at her over his shoulder. A small, cruel smile played on his lips, a look of pure, unadulterated mockery that made her stomach clench.
Something inside Kassie snapped. It wasn't courage—it was the reckless abandon of a woman who had already hit rock bottom. She had nothing left to lose, no dignity left to protect. The words clawed their way out before she could stop them, a desperate, self-destructive lunge for the last shred of control in a situation that had stripped her bare.
"Wait," she said, her voice stronger than she expected. The question was absurd. She knew it was absurd. That was the point.
"Can I have your number?"
He didn't move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he turned his head, looking at her over his shoulder. A small, cruel smile played on his lips, a look of pure, unadulterated mockery that made her stomach clench. He held her gaze, letting the silence stretch, letting her hang in the space of her own audacity.
