Fired By The Father Of My Child

Six years later.

Breanna stood in front of the mirror in the employee locker room of the Finch Luxury Hotel in Manhattan. She pulled the faded gray housekeeping uniform over her head and pinned her plastic nametag to her left breast pocket.

She stared at the dark circles under her eyes. She took a slow, deep breath, trying to push down the exhaustion.

A sudden memory flashed behind her eyes-Hoke standing at the foot of her hospital bed six years ago, his face blank, telling her the baby's heart had failed.

Breanna squeezed her eyes shut. She shook her head, physically trying to dislodge the memory. She grabbed the handle of her cleaning cart and pushed it toward the service elevators.

Maria, the housekeeping supervisor, stepped into the hallway. Her heels clicked sharply against the tile.

Maria hated Breanna. She hated how the younger staff looked at her. Maria grabbed a gold-rimmed work order and shoved it hard against Breanna's chest.

"The girl for the VVIP penthouse called in sick," Maria sneered, her eyes glinting with a malicious, calculated edge. Ever since Breanna had accidentally spotted Maria skimming from the housekeeping tip pool, Maria had been waiting for a way to permanently silence her. "You're covering it. Don't mess it up."

Breanna's stomach tightened. The top floor was strictly off-limits to regular staff. But if she refused, Maria would dock her pay, and her grandmother's medication was due on Friday.

Breanna nodded silently.

She pushed the heavy cart into the service elevator and hit the button for the top floor.

The doors opened. The thick, plush wool carpet instantly swallowed the sound of the cart's wheels. The silence in the hallway was suffocating.

Breanna swiped the master keycard against the double wooden doors. The heavy click sent a jolt of pure terror straight into her heart. It felt exactly like that night six years ago.

She forced her legs to move. She pushed the cart into the massive, sunlit living room and started wiping down the surfaces.

On the center glass coffee table, a small brass incense burner sat. A thin ribbon of sweet, heavy smoke curled into the air.

Breanna didn't pay attention to it. She moved to the wet bar and sprayed glass cleaner on the shelves.

Ten minutes later, her lungs started to burn.

Her breathing grew shallow and fast. A strange, unnatural heat bloomed in the center of her chest and spread to her cheeks. Her vision began to blur at the edges.

The sweet smoke had coated the inside of her throat.

She grabbed the edge of the marble bar to steady herself. Her fingers slipped. Her elbow knocked against a heavy crystal whiskey glass.

The glass plummeted to the floor, hitting the thick rug with a dull thud.

At that exact second, the biometric lock on the front door beeped. The heavy doors swung open.

Elliot walked in. He had just stepped off a fourteen-hour flight from Tokyo. His suit jacket was slung over his shoulder, and a freezing, exhausted aura radiated from his tall frame.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

His sharp nose caught the scent in the air. The sweet, heavy aroma of a chemical aphrodisiac. His jaw instantly locked.

He dropped his jacket on the sofa and took three long strides into the center of the room. He saw the maid in the gray uniform swaying against the bar.

Breanna heard the heavy footsteps. She turned her head. Her glazed, unfocused eyes met Elliot's piercing blue stare.

The drug in her system scrambled her brain. The heat was unbearable. Looking at the tall, broad-shouldered man standing in front of her, a wave of drugged, terrifying familiarity slammed into her. Part of her screamed to run, flashing back to the brutal heat of that night six years ago, but another part was pulled in by his overwhelming, icy presence, her body paralyzed by a twisted, contradictory gravity she couldn't explain.

She took two clumsy steps forward. The toe of her cheap shoe caught the edge of the rug. She pitched forward.

Elliot's reflexes kicked in. He reached out and caught her by the upper arms.

Breanna's soft, burning body crashed into his chest.

She grabbed handfuls of his expensive silk shirt like a drowning woman grabbing a lifeline, her lips parting as a soft, unconscious whimper escaped her throat.

Elliot looked down at the flushed, beautiful face pressed against his chest. The temperature in his eyes dropped to absolute zero.