Fired By The Father Of My Child

The heavy gold keycard sliced into Breanna's palm. Her hands were sweating so much the plastic felt slick. Hoke's hand slammed into the middle of her back, shoving her forward. Her sneakers squeaked against the thick carpet of the Waldorf Astoria's top-floor corridor. "Don't freeze up on me now," Hoke hissed. His breath smelled like stale tobacco and cheap mints. "You walk through those doors, or I make the call. They pull your grandmother's ventilator plug tomorrow morning. Your choice." Breanna's stomach dropped. The acid in her throat burned. She bit down on her lower lip, pressing her teeth into the soft flesh until the sharp, metallic taste of blood coated her tongue. She raised her trembling hand and pressed the keycard against the black sensor. A green light flashed. The heavy double doors clicked open with a hollow thud. Breanna pushed the door inward. The suite was a black void. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn tight, suffocating the room. A thick wave of air hit her face-expensive bourbon mixed with an overwhelming, dangerous male heat. Her lungs tightened. Every survival instinct screamed at her to run. She took half a step backward into the hallway. A large, scalding hot hand shot out from the darkness. Long fingers clamped around her wrist. The grip was brutal, crushing her delicate bones together. Breanna let out a sharp gasp. Before she could pull away, a massive force yanked her into the pitch-black room. The door slammed shut behind her. The hallway light vanished. She was slammed hard against the cold wall. The breath was knocked out of her lungs. A heavy, burning body pressed flush against hers. The man's breathing was erratic, harsh, and ragged. Elliot's blood was boiling. The synthetic hallucinogen pumping through his veins was tearing his rational mind apart. He couldn't see her face in the dark, but his body was operating on pure, agonizing instinct. He needed the antidote. He found her mouth in the dark. His lips crashed down on hers, bruising and absolute. Breanna thrashed. She balled her free hand into a fist and slammed it into his rock-hard chest. It was like hitting a concrete wall. Elliot growled deep in his throat. The resistance irritated the drug-addled fire in his brain. He shifted his weight, catching both of her wrists in one of his massive hands. He wrenched her arms above her head and pinned them flat against the wallpaper. The sound of cotton tearing ripped through the silent suite. Breanna squeezed her eyes shut. Her chest heaved as panic turned into raw, physical pain. A single, cold tear slipped from the corner of her eye and dropped onto the back of Elliot's burning hand. The icy drop of water made Elliot's rigid muscles freeze for a fraction of a second. But the chemical fire surged back, stronger this time. He scooped her off her feet. Breanna's stomach lurched as he carried her through the dark and dropped her onto the massive mattress. The night stretched into a suffocating eternity. There were no words. Only the sound of ragged breathing, the rustle of heavy sheets, and her muffled, suppressed sobs. Gray morning light finally bled through the crack in the curtains. Elliot forced his eyes open. A sledgehammer of pain smashed against the inside of his skull. His vision blurred. He sat up, rubbing his temples. The memories of the night were a fractured, chaotic mess. He remembered the heat. He remembered the drug. And he remembered the arrangement his enemies had tried to trap him with. He assumed the woman passed out beside him was Kendal Terry, the fiancée pushed onto him by the board. He didn't look at her face. He didn't want to. His hand fumbled toward the nightstand. His vision blurred, the fine motor skills required for writing completely beyond his fractured mind. Instead, he yanked a heavy, matte-black metal card from his wallet-a card with no limit, a symbol of absolute silence-and slammed it down on the hotel stationery. He pulled the antique ruby family ring from his right index finger. He slammed it down on top of the card. A physical contract. A cold promise. His eyes flicked to the empty pill bottle sitting perfectly next to the lamp. The emergency contraceptive Hoke had planted. Elliot saw it, registered that she had taken it, and felt a wave of cold satisfaction. He pulled on his dress shirt, buttoning it with stiff, mechanical movements. He walked out of the suite without a single backward glance. An hour later, Breanna woke up. Her entire body ached as if she had been thrown down a flight of stairs. She dragged herself up against the headboard. The room was empty. Her eyes landed on the nightstand. The piece of paper, the black metal card, and the heavy, blood-red ruby ring sitting on top of it, mocking the piece of her soul she had just sold. She didn't touch it. She couldn't. She left the ring sitting there in the cold morning light, a cursed artifact she wanted nothing to do with, as she forced her aching body out of the suite and back into the harsh world.