Taming The Sinner: The Doctor’s Cold Game

Helena stood before the double doors of the master suite, her hand hovering inches from the cold, polished brass of the handle. The hallway of the Alexander estate was silent, a heavy, oppressive silence that smelled of lemon polish and old money, the kind of silence that usually preceded a scream. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears, a rhythmic thumping that drowned out the ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs. She closed her eyes for a second, inhaling deeply through her nose, counting to four, holding for seven, exhaling for eight. It was a technique she used before picking up a scalpel, a way to steady the tremor in her hands. She didn't need a scalpel tonight. She needed ice. She pushed the mahogany door open. It swung inward on silent, well-oiled hinges. The room beyond was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the bedside lamps and the city lights filtering through the sheer curtains. The air inside was different-thick, cloying. It smelled of expensive cigars, the musk of sweat, and a floral perfume that was too sweet, too aggressive. It was the scent of Jasmine. Helena's eyes adjusted to the gloom. She didn't look at the faces first. She looked at the shapes. Two of them, tangled together on the king-sized bed that was covered in Egyptian cotton sheets she had selected from a catalog three weeks ago. The sheets were ruined now, twisted and stained with the reality of her engagement. A high-pitched, breathy laugh cut through the air. The woman, Jasmine, propped herself up on her elbows, her hair a chaotic mess over her shoulders. She didn't look ashamed. She looked entertained. She looked at Helena standing in the doorway in her sensible beige dress and smirked, a predator toying with a wounded mouse. "Did you get lost on the way to the kitchen?" Jasmine asked, her voice raspy. Helena shifted her gaze. Authur was leaning back against the tufted leather headboard. He was naked from the waist up, his skin flushed, a thin sheen of perspiration highlighting the definition of his chest. A cigar smoked between his fingers, the ash dangerously close to falling onto the duvet. He looked at Helena with heavy-lidded eyes, devoid of guilt, devoid of affection. There was only a cold, sharp amusement in his gaze, like a scientist waiting to see how a specimen would react to a shock. "Close the door, Helena," Authur said. His voice was a low rumble, rough with whiskey and smoke. "You're letting the draft in." Helena didn't move to close the door. She didn't scream. She didn't let the tears that were burning the backs of her eyes spill over. Crying was a physiological response to stress, a release valve. She couldn't afford a release. Not when the Lawrence family stock price was hovering on a razor's edge, dependent entirely on this merger going through tomorrow. She walked into the room. Her heels sank into the plush Persian rug, silencing her approach. She moved past the foot of the bed, ignoring Jasmine's theatrical gasp of mock indignation. She walked straight to the wet bar in the corner of the suite. "Oh, look, Authur," Jasmine giggled, tracing a finger down Authur's bicep. "She's going to pour us a drink. She really is the perfect little maid, isn't she?" Helena reached for the silver ice bucket. It was heavy, filled to the brim with half-melted cubes and water, chilling a bottle of champagne that remained unopened. She gripped the cold metal handles. The condensation slicked her palms. The cold bite of the silver grounded her, pulling her out of the emotional spiral and back into her body. She turned around. Authur watched her, his brow furrowing slightly. The amusement in his eyes flickered, replaced by a sudden, sharp wariness. He sat up straighter, the cigar pausing halfway to his mouth. "Helena?" he warned. She didn't speak. She crossed the distance between the bar and the bed in three long strides. She didn't run. Running implied panic. She walked with the precision of a surgeon approaching an operating table. Authur started to move. "Helena, don't you d-" She swung the bucket. It wasn't a splash. It was a deluge. The entire contents-a deluge of freezing water and jagged cubes of ice-crashed down onto the bed. It hit Authur square in the chest and face, soaking his hair, extinguishing the cigar with a pathetic hiss. It drenched Jasmine, who shrieked, a sound that was less human and more like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. The shock was absolute. For a second, there was only the sound of dripping water and Jasmine's gasping breaths. Authur wiped the water from his eyes, his hair plastered to his forehead. His chest heaved. The shock vanished instantly, replaced by a dark, volatile rage. He threw the wet duvet off his legs and lunged off the bed, towering over her. "Helena!" he roared. The sound vibrated in her chest cavity. She dropped the empty silver bucket onto the soggy carpet with a dull thud. She looked up at him, her face completely blank, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Are you awake now?" she asked. Her voice was steady, terrifyingly calm even to her own ears. Authur took a step toward her, water dripping from his nose, his fists clenched at his sides. The veins in his neck bulged. He looked ready to tear the room apart. He looked ready to tear her apart. "You think you're funny?" he snarled, looming over her, using his height to intimidate. "You think because you have a ring you can-" "Mr. Alexander! Mrs. Alexander!" The voice boomed from the hallway downstairs, echoing up the grand staircase. It was Charles, the head butler. His voice was projected, louder than necessary, a frantic warning disguised as a greeting. "Welcome! We weren't expecting you until the morning!" Authur froze. The rage on his face fractured, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated panic. He whipped his head toward the open bedroom door. "My parents," he hissed. "They're here." Jasmine scrambled off the bed, clutching the wet sheet to her chest, her makeup running in dark streaks down her face. "What? You said they were in the Hamptons!" "They were supposed to be," Authur snapped. He looked at the door, then at Helena, then at the wreckage of the bed. If his parents saw this-the mistress, the booze, the soaked bed-the wedding would be called off. But more importantly, Authur's grandfather would invoke the morality clause in the trust fund. Authur would lose his board seat. And if Authur lost his seat, the merger would die. Helena's family would be destitute by noon tomorrow. She couldn't let him sink. Not yet. Helena moved. The paralysis of the situation shattered. "Bathroom," she ordered, pointing a finger at the ensuite door. "Go. Turn the shower on. Full blast." Authur stared at her, blinking water out of his lashes. "What?" "Do it," she hissed, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "Unless you want your grandfather to freeze your accounts before you dry off." Authur's jaw tightened. He hated taking orders, especially from her. But the sound of heels clicking on the marble stairs below was getting louder. He cursed, a vile string of words, and turned, kicking the bathroom door open. "Get in there!" Helena barked at Jasmine. Jasmine stood frozen, shivering, clutching the sheet. "I can't-my clothes are-" " closet," Helena cut her off. She grabbed Jasmine by the arm. The woman's skin was clammy. Helena shoved her toward the walk-in closet. "Stay there. If you make a sound, I will personally ensure you never set foot in a high-end boutique in this city again." Jasmine stumbled into the closet. Helena slammed the door shut. Authur was in the bathroom. The pipes groaned as the shower roared to life. Helena looked at the room. It was a disaster zone. The bed was soaked. The carpet was a swamp. The bucket lay on the floor like a murder weapon. Footsteps in the hallway. They were close. Helena kicked the wet rug under the bed frame. She snatched Authur's discarded dress shirt from the armchair. It smelled of him-cedar and sweat. She pulled it on over her dress, buttoning it halfway with trembling fingers. She reached up and roughed up her hair, pulling strands loose from her perfect chignon until she looked disheveled. She rubbed her lips with the back of her hand until the friction made them red and swollen. Knock. Knock. "Authur? Are you in there?" It was Mrs. Alexander's voice, sharp and imperious. Helena took a breath. She walked to the door. She didn't open it fully. She cracked it, blocking the gap with her body, leaning against the frame as if she could barely stand. She forced a flush to her cheeks. She lowered her eyelids. Mrs. Alexander stood there, pristine in a Chanel suit, her eyes narrowing as she took in Helena's appearance-the messy hair, the oversized men's shirt, the swollen lips. "Helena?" Mrs. Alexander asked, surprised. She tried to peer past Helena into the room. "Where is Authur?" From the bathroom, the sound of the shower was deafening. Helena looked down, biting her lip in a performance of supreme embarrassment. "He's... showering," she murmured. "We... we were just..." She gestured vaguely to her disheveled state, letting the implication hang in the air. "It got a little... intense."