Chapter Sixteen
Sloane
I make it as far as the second-floor landing before the first cramp hits.
It isn't a dull ache; it's a sharp, twisting seizure in my lower abdomen that steals my breath and forces me to grip the banister until my knuckles turn white. My body, already pushed to the brink by "The Hunt" and the shock of the freezing water, has decided that this is the moment to rebel in the most fundamental way possible.
I press a hand to my stomach, leaning my forehead against the cool plaster of the wall. My cycle is usually a clockwork precision of twenty-eight days, but the stress of the last month—the late nights, the liquidations, the constant, low-level adrenaline of being in Vane's orbit—has thrown my internal rhythm into chaos.
And of course, it chooses now. Not in the privacy of my apartment. Not during a weekend of rest. But here, in the middle of an audit wearing a man's shirt, with Vane Sterling counting the seconds until I return to his side.
I duck into my guest suite, locking the door behind me with a trembling hand. The black dress Vane mentioned is draped across the bed—a piece of midnight-colored lace and structured wool that looks like a beautiful shroud. Beside it is a pair of heels that could double as weapons.
I head straight for the bathroom, stripping off the oversized white shirt. My heart sinks as I see the first stain of crimson against the fabric. It's a biological breach of contract.
I feel a sudden, hysterical urge to laugh. I am supposed to be an " Asset" I am supposed to be "Neutral." But my body is reminding me, with a relentless, throbbing heat, that I am flesh and blood. I am a woman, not a machine, and I am currently hemorrhaging in the house of a man who views any sign of weakness as a forfeit.
I rummage through my travel bag, but my hands are shaking so violently I knock a bottle of aspirin onto the tile. The sound is like thunder in the silent room.
Nineteen minutes left.
I don't have what I need. In my rush to pack for ",the hunt" I hadn't prepared for this. I was so focused on tablets and chargers and briefing notes that I forgot the basic requirements of my own body.
I sink onto the edge of the marble tub, my head in my hands. The cramps are intensifying, a radiating heat that makes my legs feel heavy and weak. I can almost hear Vane's voice in my head: "Efficiency drops with fatigue, Sloane. Resilience is a requirement."
How do I tell a man who liquidates companies for sport that I need to go to a pharmacy? How do I explain that the "Asset" is currently malfunctioning in a way he can't fix with a wire transfer?
The clock is ticking. Vane doesn't like to be kept waiting, and he likes excuses even less. If I don't walk down those stairs in seventeen minutes looking like a predator's perfect assistant, he'll reach for the phone. He'll reach for the "Medical Subsidies" file.
And I'll be the one who bled my mother's future away.