Aimee pushed through the heavy glass doors of the lobby and stepped out into the biting chill of the Manhattan night. The wind whipped her hair across her face. She dragged her suitcase to the curb, raising her hand to hail a passing yellow cab.
The taxi didn't slow down. It sped past, its tires hitting a pothole and sending a spray of dirty, freezing water onto the pavement.
Aimee jumped back to avoid the splash. As she did, a sleek, black Maybach glided silently out of the traffic and stopped exactly inches from her boots.
The tinted rear window rolled down with a soft hum. Hamilton was sitting in the back seat. His jaw was clenched tight, and his dark eyes were fixed on the cheap canvas suitcase by her leg.
Aimee's heart hammered against her ribs. She pretended not to see him. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase, turned on her heel, and started walking fast in the opposite direction.
A heavy curse echoed from inside the car. "Stay exactly where you are!" he barked at his driver. The heavy door swung open. Hamilton stepped out, his expensive leather dress shoes splashing directly into a puddle.
He closed the distance in three long strides. His large hand shot out and clamped down on her slender wrist. His grip was bruising, his fingers digging into her skin.
Aimee gasped at the sudden pain. She twisted her arm, throwing her weight backward to break his hold. But the difference in their physical strength was absolute. She was forced to stop and spin around to face him.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Hamilton hissed, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He towered over her, his presence suffocating. "Why did you block my number?"
Aimee stared at the crisp collar of his tuxedo shirt. "Was the charity gala fun?" she asked, her voice dripping with ice.
Hamilton's eyes flickered with a fraction of surprise. He quickly smoothed his expression into mild irritation. "It was a mandatory PR event for the board. It means nothing."
Aimee's lips curled into a bitter sneer. "Is the baby growing in Celeste's stomach a PR event too?"
Hamilton's pupils dilated instantly. His entire body went rigid. The hand holding her wrist loosened just a fraction in his shock.
"That..." Hamilton stammered, his smooth composure shattering. He quickly recovered, his tone turning urgent. "That is a business arrangement. It's complicated, Aimee. You don't understand how my family operates."
The nausea hit Aimee again, twisting her insides into a tight knot. She used his moment of distraction to violently yank her wrist free. She stepped back, rubbing the red marks his fingers had left on her skin.
"I understand perfectly," Aimee said, looking dead into his eyes. "I will never be your dirty little secret. I am not playing this disgusting game with you."
Hamilton's face darkened with fury. His authority was being challenged on an open street. "If you walk away from me right now," he warned, his voice dropping an octave, "I will cut off every cent. Your research funding, your credit cards, everything."
Aimee let out a harsh, humorless laugh. "I left your black card on the vanity. Take your filthy money and go to hell."
Hamilton's jaw ticked. He reached out, aiming to grab her by the shoulders and physically force her back toward the building.
Aimee's survival instinct flared. As his hands came toward her, she shifted her weight. She lifted her right leg and drove the hard heel of her ankle boot directly into Hamilton's shin with all the force she could muster.
"Fuck!" Hamilton grunted in pain. He doubled over, clutching his lower leg, his eyes wide with absolute shock. He stared at her as if he had never seen her before.
Aimee didn't waste a second. She grabbed her suitcase and sprinted toward the intersection just as a yellow cab stopped at a red light.
She yanked open the back door, practically throwing her suitcase onto the floorboards. She dove into the backseat and slammed the door shut behind her.
Hamilton straightened up, limping heavily as he took two steps toward the car. He slammed his open palm angrily against the trunk of the taxi.
Aimee looked at him through the smudged glass. "Drive," she yelled at the driver. "Brooklyn. Now."
The light turned green. The driver slammed on the gas. The taxi lurched forward, leaving Hamilton standing in the exhaust fumes under the glow of the streetlights.
Inside the cab, Aimee sank back against the cracked vinyl seat. The adrenaline was slowly draining from her veins, leaving her limbs shaking.
She pulled out her phone and opened her banking app. The screen loaded to show her current balance: two thousand dollars. It was nothing in this city.
She took a deep breath, the smell of old air freshener filling her nose. "Change of plans," she told the driver. "Take me to the old medical dorms near the university."
As the cab merged onto the bridge, Aimee's phone buzzed again. Another unknown number. This time, it was a voicemail. She pressed it to her ear and heard Hamilton's voice, low and venomous: "You think running to Brooklyn will save you? I own that building, Aimee. Sleep tight."
