Fired By The Father Of My Child

Breanna's feverish cheek pressed flat against the cool silk of Elliot's shirt. The heat inside her veins was screaming for relief. Her hands slid upward, her fingers curling around his waist, desperately trying to pull him closer to absorb the cold radiating from his skin. Elliot's entire body went rigid. His muscles turned to steel. The smell of cheap, synthetic apple shampoo mixed with the sickeningly sweet incense hit his nose. A violent flashback slammed into his brain. The dark room. The loss of control. The disgusting feeling of being chemically manipulated six years ago. The venomous anger he felt back then surged straight into his chest. Elliot raised his hands. His fingers clamped down on Breanna's shoulders like iron vises. He ripped her off his body with brutal force and shoved her backward. Breanna lost her balance. She flew backward, her knees slamming hard into the edge of the heavy glass coffee table. A sharp, blinding pain shot up her leg. The physical shock cut through the fog in her brain for a split second. She gasped, collapsing onto the carpet, clutching her bruised knee. She looked up, dazed and trembling. Elliot stood towering over her. He looked at her as if she were a rotting carcass on the side of the road. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit pants and pulled out a pristine white handkerchief. He began wiping his hands, dragging the fabric over his fingers with violent, disgusted motions. Breanna opened her mouth to speak. Her throat was bone dry. No sound came out. Elliot let out a low, dark laugh. The sound was like a serrated blade scraping against her eardrums. "Did you really think this would work?" Elliot's voice was a lethal whisper. "You think spraying some cheap aphrodisiac in my room is going to get you a promotion to my bed?" He pointed a long finger at the cleaning cart. "Your acting is pathetic. You belong in the gutter, not my penthouse." All the blood drained from Breanna's face. A wave of intense, suffocating humiliation crashed over her. She placed her palms flat on the carpet, trying to push herself up. But the drug was still in her system. Her legs turned to jelly, and she sank back down to her knees. Elliot didn't even look at her struggling. He turned his back, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and picked up the landline. He hit the speed dial for security. "Get this trash out of my suite," he ordered. He slammed the phone down. Three minutes later, the doors burst open. Two massive hotel security guards in black suits marched in. Elliot kept his back to the room. He pointed a finger over his shoulder at the floor. The guards grabbed Breanna by the armpits. They hauled her up roughly, her feet dragging against the carpet. The rough handling snapped Breanna's last thread of composure. Tears of pure frustration spilled over her eyelashes. "I didn't do this!" she screamed, fighting against the guards' grip. "I was told to clean! Someone set this up!" Elliot's broad back didn't move an inch. He didn't turn around. The guards dragged her out into the hallway. The heavy double doors slammed shut with a deafening boom, cutting off her voice. Elliot tossed the soiled handkerchief into the trash can. He walked over to the coffee table, picked up a glass of ice water, and dumped it directly over the brass incense burner. The smoke hissed and died. Elliot stared at the wet, black ash. A strange, violent annoyance twisted in his gut-an emotion he couldn't rationalize. Downstairs, the security guards dragged Breanna through the service corridors and threw her out the back exit. She landed hard on the wet concrete of the alleyway, the cold rain soaking her uniform.