I Tore Up His Check, Then He Bought My Life

"I have to go to the restroom."

Essence didn't wait for permission. She grabbed her clutch and practically ran from the table. She felt Fielding's eyes burning a hole between her shoulder blades with every step.

She burst into the ladies' room. Thankfully, it was empty. She locked herself in the handicap stall-the biggest one-and leaned against the door, hyperventilating.

One, two, three. Breathe.

She looked at her hand. The ring looked small and fragile on her finger. Nathan. Sweet, safe, boring Nathan. He loved her. He didn't look at her like she was a corporate asset. He looked at her like she was a person.

"He can't do anything," she whispered. "The prenup... it was just paper. It was supposed to protect me from the FBI, not chain me to him."

But she knew Fielding. Legality was just a suggestion to the Hancock family. They wrote the laws; they didn't follow them.

She stayed in the stall for ten minutes. She splashed cold water on her face, ruining her concealer, but she didn't care. She couldn't go back to that table. She couldn't sit next to him and watch him dissect her life with a steak knife.

She decided to leave. She would sneak out the side exit near the Egyptian Art wing and take the subway home. To hell with Zoe. To hell with the Gala.

Essence opened the bathroom door.

The hallway was dim. The music from the Great Hall was muffled here, a distant thumping bass. The corridor was long and narrow, lined with ancient limestone reliefs.

She took off her heels. The pain was blinding. Holding them in one hand, she walked barefoot on the plush carpet, moving quickly toward the exit sign.

She turned the corner.

And stopped.

A wheelchair was parked in the middle of the hallway. It was blocking the path completely.

Fielding was sitting there, facing away from her. He was looking at a painting of a storm at sea. Smoke curled up from his hand-a cigar.

"You always did have a terrible sense of direction," he said. He didn't turn around.

Essence took a step back. "Move, Fielding."

"No."

He manipulated the joystick. The chair spun around with mechanical precision. He faced her.

In the dim light, he looked even bigger. The wheelchair added bulk, metal and leather framing his broad shoulders. He took a drag of the cigar, the tip glowing cherry-red in the gloom.

"You're trying to sneak out the service entrance," he said. "Like a rat."

"I'm leaving. I'm going home."

"To the doctor?" Fielding rolled forward. The motor hummed. "Does he satisfy you, Essence? Does he buy you vintage dresses and pay your rent?"

"He loves me," Essence spat. "He doesn't treat me like a piece of property."

"Love." Fielding scoffed. He moved closer. Essence backed up until her shoulder blades hit the limestone wall. There was nowhere to go.

Fielding drove the chair right up to her. He didn't stand up. He didn't need to. He drove the footrest of the chair until it pressed painfully against her shins, pinning her to the wall with the weight of the machine. The metal dug into her skin.

He leaned forward slightly, just enough to invade her air, his hands still gripping the armrests as if holding himself back.

"You think this is over because you found some boy to play house with?" His voice was a growl. "You think I crawled out of the hell I was in just to let you walk away?"

"You sent me away!" Essence cried. "You told me to leave!"

"I told you to wait," he corrected. "I told you to wait until I was strong enough to protect you. Instead, you ran. You let them strip you of your name, your money, your inheritance. You let them turn you into a victim."

"I am a survivor, Fielding."

"You are a waitress in a nurse's uniform." He reached out with his other hand and grabbed her left wrist. His grip was iron. He lifted her hand, staring at the engagement ring with undisguised hatred.

"Take it off."

"No."

"Take. It. Off."

"You can't make me."

Fielding stared at her. Then, slowly, he released her wrist. He leaned back in his chair. The violence in his eyes was replaced by a cold, calculating calm.

"I don't have to make you," he said softly. "You'll take it off yourself. Begging me to let you take it off."

"You're insane."

"I'm determined. There's a difference." He exhaled a cloud of smoke. It drifted over her face, smelling of tobacco and danger. "Go home, Essence. Run to your little apartment. Lock the doors. It won't matter."

He moved the joystick. The chair reversed, clearing the path.

"Game on, Mrs. Hancock."

"I'm not Mrs. Hancock! That agreement was never filed!" she screamed at him.

Fielding just smiled. "Are you sure about that?"