At seven in the morning, Keeley pushed open the front doors of her dorm building. Her legs felt like they were filled with lead.
Her face was as pale as a sheet of paper. Dark, heavy circles bruised the skin under her eyes, and her lips were cracked and bloodless.
A sharp autumn wind blew past. She broke into an uncontrollable fit of coughing, wrapping her cheap coat tighter around her shivering frame.
She looked down at the piece of paper in her hand with the Brooklyn address. She started walking unsteadily toward the subway station.
Right at that moment, a pitch-black Maybach S680 glided silently to the curb right beside her.
The dark, bulletproof window of the backseat rolled down, revealing Holland's face. It was dark as a thundercloud.
His deep eyes scanned her swaying, fragile body like a radar. His eyebrows snapped together in a harsh line.
Hearing the engine, Keeley turned her head. When she saw him, she stumbled backward instinctively, like she had just seen a monster.
Holland didn't waste a single word. He shoved the car door open and stepped out, his long legs eating up the distance between them.
Panic flooded Keeley's veins. She turned around and tried to run toward the opposite street to escape his sight.
But the fever made her steps clumsy. Before she could take three steps, Holland's large hand clamped down hard on her thin wrist.
The burning heat radiating from her skin made Holland's expression freeze over. He harshly demanded to know why her phone was turned off.
Keeley struggled wildly. "Let me go!" she screamed, her voice hoarse and broken. "I have to go look at an apartment!"
Holland glanced at the crumpled piece of paper in her hand. A flash of violent rage ignited in his eyes.
He completely ignored her resistance. He bent down, scooped his arm under the back of her knees, and lifted her entirely off the ground.
Keeley let out a sharp gasp. Her feet dangled in the air. Her weak fists beat uselessly against his rock-hard chest.
A few early-rising Columbia students walked by, covering their mouths in shock at the aggressive scene.
Holland shot a lethal, warning glare at the bystanders. He carried her straight toward the Maybach.
The driver immediately pulled open the rear door. Holland shoved her struggling body into the luxurious interior.
Keeley scrambled toward the opposite door to escape, but Holland's massive frame was already inside. He slammed the door shut behind him.
The locks clicked with a sharp snap. Keeley was completely trapped in the airtight, opulent space.
"Dr. Evans' private clinic on the Upper East Side," Holland ordered the driver coldly.
Keeley pressed herself into the furthest corner of the leather seat. She glared at him with terrified, defensive eyes, like a wounded hedgehog.
Holland looked at the unnatural, feverish flush on her cheeks. He let out a heavy sigh.
Suddenly, he leaned forward. Ignoring her kicks and pushes, he dragged her forcefully into his broad chest.
He took off his cashmere overcoat-still warm from his body-and wrapped her up tightly like a cocoon.
Trapped in his embrace, surrounded by the heavy scent of cedarwood, Keeley felt a sickening, fatal sense of safety.
She wanted to bite his shoulder to protest, but the fever finally drained the very last drop of her energy.
Holland's large hand gently pressed against the back of her head, tucking her face into his chest.
Listening to his steady, powerful heartbeat as the Maybach drove smoothly through the city, Keeley's consciousness slipped into complete darkness.
