One Night With The Unstable Billionaire

The strange word sent a violent shiver straight down Arla's spine.

She didn't have a single second to analyze what it meant. The raw survival instinct screaming in her brain took over. She threw her weight against the heavy wooden door, shoving it open and launching herself into the hallway.

The door slammed shut behind her with a massive thud. The heavy wood completely severed the dangerous, suffocating aura of the man inside.

Arla didn't stop. She ran barefoot down the long corridor, her torn black dress whipping around her legs. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of her frantic footsteps.

She hit the elevator bank and slammed her palm against the down button, hitting it over and over until her hand ached.

The polished steel doors slid open. She threw herself inside and hit the lobby button, pressing her back against the cold metal wall. Her chest heaved, her lungs burning as she dragged in oxygen.

The elevator dropped. The sudden weightlessness made her stomach lurch, violently triggering the memory of falling into the dark void of death. She bit down hard on her lower lip. She bit until the sharp, metallic taste of fresh blood flooded her tongue.

The pain grounded her. She was alive.

The doors dinged open at the lobby. Arla kept her head down, her dark hair falling over her face to block the curious stare of the night-shift bellhop. She practically sprinted through the revolving glass doors.

The Manhattan thunderstorm was brutal. Sheets of freezing rain instantly soaked through her thin dress, plastering the fabric to her skin.

She ran to the curb and waved frantically at a yellow cab splashing through the puddles. It screeched to a halt. Arla ripped the back door open and threw herself onto the worn leather seat.

She dug into her small clutch, pulling out three crumpled, soaking wet hundred-dollar bills. She threw them over the plastic divider.

"Sargent Manor. Long Island. Now," she yelled.

The tires spun, slipping on the wet asphalt before catching traction. The cab shot forward into the dark, rainy night.

Back in the penthouse suite, the faint scent of vanilla-the woman's scent-was already fading into the cold air.

Ewald's heavy, ragged breathing slowly leveled out. The violent, blood-red haze that had clouded his vision finally receded, leaving behind a terrifying, icy clarity.

He looked down at his wrists. The metal cuffs had sliced deep into his skin, exposing raw tissue. He didn't feel the pain. What he felt was the absolute absence of the PTSD flashback. He had survived an episode without the heavy sedatives.

The image of the woman's terrified, doe-like eyes burned into the back of his skull.

Ewald took a slow, deep breath. His jaw locked tight. The muscles in his massive arms bunched and expanded.

A sickening screech of twisting metal filled the room.

With a brutal yank, the thick metal of the handcuffs screeched and deformed, and he tore the entire heavy headboard fixture directly from the wooden frame. Solid oak splintered and shattered across the floor.

He dragged the broken piece of wood and the attached handcuffs across the room, stopping at his discarded suit jacket on the sofa. He reached into the inner pocket and pulled out a heavy, black encrypted communicator.

He pressed his thumb to the screen. It glowed a toxic green. He hit a single button, opening a highly classified line.

It connected instantly.

"Boss," his special assistant, Jalen, answered. His voice was tight with anxiety.

Ewald ignored the blood dripping from his wrists onto the expensive rug. His voice was a flat, dead void.

"Lock down every security camera in this hotel. Cut their external network access immediately."

"Understood. What's the target?"

"A woman just ran out of my suite. I want her entire identity, background, and current location in ten minutes."

Jalen paused for a fraction of a second, picking up on the rare, dangerous shift in his boss's tone. "Consider it done."

Ewald killed the connection. He walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the rain-soaked streets of the city he practically owned.

A flash of lightning illuminated the harsh, unforgiving angles of his face.

He looked down. Half-buried in the thick fibers of the rug was a single pearl earring.

Ewald bent down and picked it up. He closed his large fist around it, squeezing until the sharp metal backing dug painfully into his palm.

His jaw clenched again. He didn't care who she was or where she was running. She was never getting out of his sight again.