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Chris sat on the edge of the bed, his fingers brushing Zoey's damp forehead as she lay there, her body burning up and drenched in sweat. He had stripped her out of the sticky shirt she wore earlier and replaced it with one of his own oversized tees—it hung loosely on her like a nightgown. Her chest rose and fell in uneven rhythms, her breaths sharp and desperate like she was fighting something invisible.
His jaw tightened.
"Zoey, you better hold on," he muttered, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You're not allowed to die on me, okay? Not like this."
She whimpered softly, her lips parting as if to speak but no words came out. Her eyes fluttered—half-lidded, glossy, and unfocused.
Chris's fists clenched. "Stanley better bring that damn drug in the next ten minutes or I'm gonna burn the whole city down looking for another cure."
Just then, his phone buzzed and he snatched it off the nightstand.
"Yo boss, I'm outside," Stanley's voice came through.
Chris didn't wait for another word. He ended the call, stormed downstairs, grabbed the drug bag from Stanley, and ignored every unnecessary explanation the guy tried to give. He didn't have time for that shit.
Back in the room, Zoey was mumbling again, her voice slurred.
"Chris… don't go…"
His heart thudded.
"I'm here," he whispered, sitting beside her. "I'm not going anywhere."
He popped the medication open, gently lifting her head. "Swallow this for me, Zoey," he coaxed, holding the pill to her lips and pouring a bit of water after it.
She coughed, but the pill went down.
Chris exhaled slowly and stroked her cheek. "Good girl."
He stayed there for hours, holding her hand, watching over her, refusing to sleep—even though exhaustion clawed at his spine. He didn't care. This was Zoey.
And if anything happened to her tonight… he'd never forgive himself.
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I cracked my eyes open weakly, blinking against the dull light. The first thing I saw was a ceiling I didn't recognize. Where the hell am I?
A sharp pain sliced through my skull as I tried to sit up.
"Uugh…" I groaned, collapsing back down before trying again—this time slower, more cautious. The pain didn't let up. It felt like someone had taken a hammer to my brain and kept pounding it without mercy.
My eyes scanned the room, careful not to move my head too fast. The place was beautiful in the darkest way possible. Deep red walls, eerie yet strangely elegant paintings with shadowy strokes and intense eyes, like they were watching me. A side table, a single mini couch, and the large bed I was on—that was pretty much it. The room was cold, classy, but empty. Haunted, almost.
What the actual fuck?
There was a glass jug of water on the table and an empty cup beside it. My throat burned. I was parched like I hadn't had water in days.
Should I be drinking random water in a stranger's house?
My body answered for me before my brain could argue.
"Fuck it."
I stumbled out of bed, filled the glass, and downed the water like it was liquid gold. I poured another and chugged that too. It was only halfway through my second glass that the fog in my head began to lift—and then the memories came.
Chris's penthouse.
The wine.
The warning.
Me, ignoring the warning and pouring another glass like some stubborn dumbass.
The overwhelming heat that followed.
And then… oh God.
I froze.
The glass nearly slipped from my fingers, but I caught it just in time. My heart thundered in my chest as I placed it gently back on the table and sank onto the edge of the bed. The scenes kept flashing across my mind—fragments at first, then clearer, sharper. The more I remembered, the more the headache spiked.
I rubbed my forehead, groaning. "Why the fuck couldn't I have just forgotten everything?"
His mouth. On me.
His tongue doing things I didn't even know could feel that good.
My legs squeezed together involuntarily.
"Ahhhhh—!" I let out a tiny scream and immediately slapped my hand over my mouth.
My moans. God, I moaned so loud. Like some porn star on mute.
I looked down at myself and gasped.
Different clothes.
His clothes.
Hold the fuck up.
Did he drug me?
Was this all some elaborate setup? Was I just another notch in his bedpost?
Did we… go all the way and I just blacked out before or after?
No.
I couldn't let my mind spiral. I needed answers. From him. Directly.
I stood, rage bubbling inside me like a volcano. I was ready to erupt.
Prison isn't fun, Zoey. Keep it together. Don't stab him. At least not fatally.
I marched out of the room, ignoring the pounding pain in my skull. I didn't care.
That bastard had some explaining to do.
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