The restroom was a claustrophobic nightmare. The fluorescent light flickered with a maddening buzz, and the air reeked of stale bleach and something more organic, more rot-like.
Scarlett stood before the cracked mirror, her hands trembling as she scrubbed at the coffee stain on her coat. The cold tap water did nothing but spread the brown mess, turning the pristine white fabric into a muddy blur—much like her life.
"Stupid," she whispered to herself, her voice cracking. "So stupid."
CLICK.
The sound was small, mechanical, and terrifying. It was the sound of a lock sliding home.
Scarlett froze. The water was still running, freezing her fingers, but her blood ran colder. She spun around.
Uncle Danny stood there, his back pressed against the locked door. In the confined space, his bulk seemed to double. The predatory grin on his face made her stomach churn.
"Baby," he wheezed, his eyes dropping to her soaked chest where the wet blouse clung to her skin like a second skin. "Let's find that inspiration you were looking for."
"Get out," Scarlett warned, stepping back until her hips hit the wet sink. "This is the ladies' room."
"And I'm the one paying the bills." Danny took a step forward. The smell of his sweat—acrid and oniony—filled the small gap between them. "Don't play hard to get. You want to keep your job? Show me you have some fire."
He lunged.
His thick, sausage-like hand reached out, grabbing for her shoulder. Scarlett screamed, bracing for the violation.
BANG—!
The door didn't just open; it imploded.
Wood splintered. The lock shattered with a metallic screech.
Danny froze, his hand inches from her neck.
A man stood in the doorway, framed by the blinding light of the hallway like a vengeful archangel. But there was nothing angelic about his aura. Standing at 6'1", he radiated an icy, ascetic power that sucked the air out of the room.
He wore a bespoke navy suit that screamed old money, but his eyes... his eyes were the color of a frozen ocean.
"A disgrace to the gender," the stranger said. His voice was a low baritone, calm, detached, and terrifying.
Before Danny could even gasp, the man moved. It was a blur of violence—clinical, precise, efficient. His long leg lashed out in a fluid arc.
THUD.
The kick connected with Danny's chest. The fat editor flew backward, crashing into the tiled wall with a wet smack, sliding down like a sack of garbage.
"Get lost," the man said, adjusting his cuffs as if he had just stepped on a cockroach. "If you want to be filthy, do it alone. Don't dirty a clean girl."
Danny didn't argue. He scrambled up, wheezing, and scuttled out of the bathroom like a frightened rat, not daring to look back.
Scarlett stood paralyzed, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The stranger turned to her. Up close, he was devastatingly handsome—high cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and those freezing blue eyes that seemed to scan her like an X-ray.
He didn't smile. He simply took off his blazer.
With a weight that brooked no refusal, he draped the heavy, warm fabric over her shivering shoulders.
Instantly, Scarlett was drowned in his scent. It wasn't just cologne; it was cedarwood, cold rain, and the sterile, sharp tang of hospital disinfectant. It was the smell of control.
"Do you need the police?" he asked.
"I... I'm fine," Scarlett stammered, clutching the lapels of his coat. The heat from his body still lingered in the lining, wrapping her in an intimate embrace.
His phone buzzed sharply in his pocket. He checked it, a frown creasing his brow.
"Dr. Liam, the patient is crashing in OR 3!" a voice crackled from the device.
The man's expression shifted from cold judgment to professional urgency. He pulled a business card from his pocket—heavy, textured, black cardstock with silver lettering—and pressed it into her palm.
"I have to go. My name is Liam." He held her gaze for a second longer than necessary. "Take this. If you have any trouble... call me. You must."
He turned and strode away, his footsteps echoing with authority. Scarlett was left standing in the dirty restroom, wrapped in a billionaire surgeon's coat, clutching a piece of cardstock that felt like a lifeline.
~
The illusion of safety lasted exactly one street corner.
Scarlett walked out of the cafe, the heavy coat shielding her from the drizzle, but not from her past.
"Scarlett, wait."
The voice was familiar. Too familiar.
She stopped. Jeremy stood under the awning, his amber eyes wide with shock as they landed on the oversized, expensive blazer draped over her shoulders. It clearly belonged to another man—a man far wealthier, far more powerful than him.
A flash of bitter jealousy twisted Jeremy's handsome face.
"Come back to my firm, Scarlett," he said, his voice tight. He reached out to grab her wrist. "I can't watch you be trampled by third-rate trash like Danny. And... who gave you this?"
"Let go, Jeremy," Scarlett snapped, pulling her hand away. "I don't need your charity."
"Charity? Look at you! You're wandering the streets in some strange man's coat!"
"At least he helped me! Where were you?"
"I—"
"You look at yourself first, rent-dodger!"
A screeching voice cut through the argument like a rusty saw. Mrs. Lany, Scarlett's landlady, stormed down the sidewalk like a tank in a floral dress. Passersby stopped to watch the drama.
"Three months! You haven't paid rent in three months!" Mrs. Lany yelled, shoving a battered, overstuffed suitcase toward Scarlett. "I've changed the locks! Take your junk and get out of my property!"
She gave the old suitcase one final, vicious shove.
The suitcase wobbled on the uneven pavement. It hit a puddle.
RIP.
The sound of the zipper bursting was loud in the damp autumn air.
Time seemed to stop. Under the bewildered gaze of Jeremy, Mrs. Lany, and a dozen strangers, the suitcase vomited its contents into the London mud.
It wasn't books. It wasn't art supplies.
It was Scarlett's most private, intimate collection.
Black lace bras. Sheer silk stockings with garters. Flimsy, delicate panties. They scattered like fallen, sinful petals into the dirty muck.
Scarlett froze. The blood drained from her face. She was wearing a billionaire's jacket on her shoulders, standing tall like a queen, but at her feet lay the wreckage of her cheap, fragile dignity.
Jeremy stared at the pile. He blinked, as if he couldn't process what he was seeing. Slowly, he bent down. His fingers trembled slightly as he picked up a scrap of fabric that had landed near his polished shoe.
It was a thong.
A translucent, fiery red lace thong—the boldest, sexiest piece she owned, purchased solely for drawing references. But Jeremy didn't know that.
He dangled it from his index finger, the red lace Stark against the grey London sky. He looked at the thong, then slowly lifted his gaze to Scarlett.
The concern in his eyes had vanished. In its place was a shock that slowly curdled into a darkened, hungry gaze. His pupils dilated, swallowing the amber.
"I didn't expect this," Jeremy murmured, his voice low and raspy. He took a step closer, twirling the wet lace.
"You look so conservative, Scarlett... so pure. But you like wearing things this... dirty?"