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Ines Mccall woke with a gasp, her lungs seizing as if she were underwater.

She sat up, the movement sharp and violent. The sheets beneath her fingers were silk, cool and slippery, nothing like the rough cotton blend she had washed a thousand times in a Queens laundromat. The air smelled different here. It smelled of expensive cedar, stale whiskey, and a heavy, masculine musk that triggered a warning siren in the base of her skull.

Her head throbbed. A dull, rhythmic pounding behind her eyes brought flashes of the previous night. A bar. The burn of alcohol she hadn't meant to drink. A man's profile, sharp as a knife's edge.

She turned her head.

Dorian Mcclain lay on the other side of the massive bed. He was asleep, his breathing slow and even. even in sleep, he looked dangerous. His jaw was set tight, his dark hair messy against the white pillowcase. This was the man who could crush her entire existence with a signature.

Panic, cold and liquid, flooded her stomach.

Ines forced herself to freeze. Breathe, she commanded her racing heart. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.

It was a reflex from a life she had buried three years ago. Her pulse slowed, though the terror remained a cold knot in her chest. She had to leave. Now. Before he woke up. Before he remembered whatever mistake they had made last night.

She slid her legs out from under the duvet, her bare feet sinking into plush carpet. She moved like a ghost, every muscle controlled to prevent sound. Her dress, a cheap navy thing she had bought at a thrift store, was a crumpled heap on the floor. Her hands shook as she pulled it on, the zipper snagging briefly before she forced it up.

She scanned the room for her purse. It was on the nightstand.

Next to it sat two phones. Both were black, sleek, and encased in identical matte shells. No logos. No distinguishing marks. Her own cheap, cracked phone lay beside them, looking pathetic in comparison. She snatched it first, her lifeline.

Ines grabbed her purse. Her hand hovered over the phones. Her vision blurred slightly from the hangover. She snatched the one on the outer edge, shoved it into her bag, and turned away.

She didn't look back at Dorian. She couldn't afford to.

She slipped out of the suite, the heavy door clicking shut with a sound that felt like a gunshot in the silence. The elevator ride down was a blur of mirrored reflections she refused to look at. She smoothed her hair, wiped the smudge of mascara from under her eye, and walked through the lobby.

The doorman didn't even look at her. To him, she was just another walk of shame.

Outside, the Manhattan morning air was biting. It hit her exposed arms, raising gooseflesh. Ines wrapped her arms around herself and walked fast, heading for the subway station.

The transition from the Pierre Hotel to the N train was a physical assault. The subway car smelled of stale sweat and breakfast sandwiches. The noise was deafening-the screech of metal on metal, the static of the announcements, the loud conversation of two tourists next to her.

Ines stared at the floor. She watched hands. The tourists had relaxed hands, open and gesturing. The man across from her clutched a briefcase, knuckles white. A woman to her left picked at a hangnail.

Hands told the truth when faces lied.

She got off at Queensbridge. The air here was different-heavier, laced with exhaust and frying oil. She kept her head down, the brim of her invisible hat pulled low, navigating the cracked sidewalks. She avoided the corner where the dealers stood, their eyes tracking her like predators.

Her apartment building loomed, a gray block of concrete that had seen better decades. The front door lock was broken again. It hung loose from the frame, a metal tongue lolling out.

Ines climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Her legs burned.