C19 Nineteen

~Bianca's POV~

Twenty minutes.

That's how long I paced in that damn dining room: barefoot, furious, and splintering apart from the inside out.

I couldn't stop replaying it. His mouth. His voice. My body.

Why had I reacted like that?

Why was I still aching for him?

Still slick after everything he'd done?

I was disgusting.

I blamed the red room. I blamed the trauma. I blamed the fact that Nathan hadn't touched me in so long that maybe my body had forgotten what safe pleasure felt like. This wasn't about Damien.

Couldn't be.

It was just nerves. Confusion. Residual heat.

Or at least, that was the lie I wrapped around myself like a blanket.

Eventually, I stormed back to my room and got dressed in a plain blouse, dark jeans, and a neutral jacket. No jewelry. Nothing too feminine. I didn't want softness today. I wanted steel.

I shoved the pill bottle into my purse and made for the front door.

But of course, Martha was already there. Arms folded. Face showing off nothing. Like Damien's ghost had jumped inside her skin.

"He won't like you leaving alone," she said calmly.

"Too bad," I snapped.

"Let the driver take you."

"I'm not a child."

"No," she said. "You're his property."

The words made me flinch. Not because they were wrong but because they were true.

I argued. She didn't budge. Eventually, I gave in—not because I was afraid, but because I knew the truth: the driver wasn't there for safety.

He was there to report back.

Whatever. Let Damien hear where I was going. It wouldn't change a thing anyway.

*****

Dr. Emily's office smelled like antiseptic and peppermint tea.

She welcomed me inside with that familiar soft expression, the kind that once felt comforting. But today, even that felt too gentle. I needed facts. Not care.

I sat down and pulled the bottle from my purse.

Her smile faded the second she read the label. "This is it?"

I nodded. "Yes."

She opened the bottle and tipped a few capsules into her palm. Examined the shape. The markings. Then she stood, opened a drawer, and pulled out a tablet scanner. One pill, one scan. The machine beeped.

There was a long pause, then her shoulders tensed. Her mouth pressed into a thin, pale line.

"Bianca…"

"What?"

"You were right. This isn't medication. Not in any ethical sense of the word." She sat down slowly. "These pills are… highly illegal. Experimental. I've only heard about them in whispers; off-market trials, biotech blackmail, the kind of stuff that never makes it to publication."

My stomach dropped. "What do they do?"

"They were designed to break people down." She spoke carefully now. Like the words themselves were volatile. "Physically. Mentally. They destabilize the immune system, erode the lining of the stomach and liver, and reprogram how the brain responds to pain and trauma."

I blinked. "Reprogram?"

She nodded grimly. "The pills confuse the body into associating pain with pleasure. In clinical terms… they induce trauma bonding. In human terms? They make you crave what's hurting you."

My chest felt tight. Like my ribs were caving in.

She looked at me carefully. "Had you stayed on these… another year, maybe less… you'd be dead."

Dead.

I stared at the bottle in her hand. Because it fit.

It matched. Nathan faked his death… a year before I died.

"So I died right on schedule," I mumbled under my breath.

Emily's face softened. "Bianca—"

"I'm fine." I wasn't. But I couldn't afford to fall apart.

"I'll take this to someone I trust," she said gently. "Dr. Halvorsen. He works in pharmacological ethics. He's off the books. He might be able to develop a reversal protocol, but it'll take time."

"I'll take anything," I said quickly.

She nodded, then opened another drawer and handed me a second bottle: this one white, labeled, and clean.

"These won't fix the damage," she said. "But they'll soothe the inflammation. The nausea. Some of the internal pressure."

I stood up, legs a little shaky. "Thank you."

We hugged. It was tight. It was grateful. It was quiet.

Then I left with a fire in my chest and a name on my tongue.

Nathan.

*****

I didn't ask the driver for permission, I gave him an order.

"Take me to Sinclair Industries."

If Damien had gone through with the plan—met Nathan, baited him into something—I needed to know.

When the car pulled up to the tower, everything looked the same. But it felt different. The air buzzed with something raw and unfinished. I stepped out, head held high, and walked straight through the doors.

And there they were. Of course.

Marcus and Tim, blocking the hallway like rottweilers in suits.

"Back again?" Marcus sneered, eyes dragging down my body. "Didn't think sluts had office hours."

Tim laughed. "One of your sugar daddies dropped you off this time in that black car?"

I tried to walk past them, but Marcus shoved his arm out in front of me.

"You don't belong here."

"And neither," I said sweetly, "do your balls on your hips. Want me to kick them back into place?"

His smirk faltered. "Slut," he spat. "You think opening your legs for power makes you something? You're nothing but a—"

"—a what, exactly?" A smooth voice interrupted the tension.

All three of us turned and there stood Nathan.

He looked perfect. Of course he did. Cold, pressed, immaculate. But his eyes told the truth.

Something was wrong.

He was shaken.

Walking toward us with slow, lethal calm, he asked Marcus and Tim, "What do you think you're doing?"

Tim stammered. "Mr. Hayes- this slut—"

Nathan interrupted him. "This slut is my wife."

Silence fell heavily. Marcus looked like he might throw up. Tim looked ready to bolt.

Nathan stepped closer, voice harsh. "Next time you decide to lay hands on Hayes' property, ask permission."

The word property hit me like a slap. But I didn't flinch.

I was done flinching.

The guards scrambled to open the doors, stammering apologies. Pathetic.

Nathan brushed past me, cold as stone. I tilted my head and smiled sweetly.

"You look tense," I said. "Bad meeting?"

His smirk didn't reach his eyes. "More like a circus act. Complete with a whore show."

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

But he was already striding out the door.

No goodbye. Just pure, hollowed rage.

Whatever Damien had said—whatever he'd done—it had gotten under Nathan's skin.

Good.

*****

The elevator ride up to Damien's floor was quick, but not quick enough. My heart hammered the entire way. I told myself this wasn't about him. That I was only here to check on the plan.

But when the doors opened and the receptionist looked up at me, nervous, I knew.

"He's in a meeting," she said, fidgeting. "With… someone."

"I'll wait."

I didn't.

I walked right past her. My heels echoing louder with every step. The closer I got to his door, the more I felt it.

That chill in the air.

I heard his voice first, her name leaving his mouth.

Then came her sultry voice. "I just want to show you how much I've been thinking about you."

My stomach turned to stone.

Already?

I stood frozen outside the slightly ajar door, fists clenched, heart racing for reasons I couldn't explain.

Then I pushed it open.