Wrong Room: The Ruthless CEO's Captive

The Upper East Side Women's Health clinic was exactly what the website promised. Joanna stepped through the glass doors and into a world of hushed voices and expensive perfume. The waiting room was empty except for a woman in the corner, her face hidden behind a copy of Vogue, her handbag-a Birkin, Joanna's brain supplied automatically, probably worth more than Joanna made in a year-resting on the seat beside her like a guard dog.

Joanna approached the desk. The receptionist looked up with a smile that was practiced, professional, and somehow still warm.

"Joanna Santana? I see you're here for an urgent consultation. Dr. Evans is running slightly behind, but it shouldn't be more than a few minutes."

Joanna nodded. Her mouth was dry. She'd taken a taxi-couldn't face the subway, not with the pain ebbing and flowing like a tide she couldn't control-and now her last sixty dollars were gone, spent on a ride that had taken her further from her life with every block.

She sat on one of the velvet chairs. It was too soft, too enveloping. It made her feel small. The woman with the Birkin didn't look up from her magazine.

The minutes ticked by. Joanna checked her phone-dead now, completely, the screen black and unresponsive. She checked the clock on the wall. Eleven-forty. Eleven-fifty.

The pain came back, sharper this time, and she pressed her hand to her stomach, trying to breathe through it. The receptionist noticed. Her smile flickered.

"Dr. Evans will be right with you, Ms. Santana. Can I get you water?"

"No. Thank you."

Twelve o'clock. The door to the inner offices opened, and a woman emerged-tall, silver-haired, elegant in a way that made Joanna feel even more out of place. Dr. Evans, presumably. She was on her phone, frowning, speaking in rapid, clipped tones.

"I don't care what the board says, I'm a physician, not a-" She stopped. Looked at Joanna. Her expression softened, slightly. "Yes. Fine. I'll be there by two. But this is the last time."

She ended the call. Turned to the receptionist. "Maya, I have to run to the hospital. Emergency consult. Can you reschedule my afternoon?"

"Of course, Dr. Evans. But Ms. Santana is here for an urgent-"

Dr. Evans looked at Joanna again. Her eyes were sharp, assessing, the kind of eyes that missed nothing. "Yes. I see. Well, I'm afraid you'll have to reschedule, Ms.-"

"Santana." Joanna stood. The movement sent a fresh wave of pain through her pelvis, and she swayed. "Please. I really need to be seen today. I can wait. However long it takes."

Dr. Evans's expression softened further. She was kind, Joanna realized. The kind of doctor who had gone into women's health because she actually cared about women. It made Joanna want to cry.

"I'm sorry. This is a genuine emergency. But-" She paused. Looked toward the inner offices. "My son is here. He's not a gynecologist, but he's a physician. Board certified. He did his residency in emergency medicine before changing careers. He can at least perform an initial assessment. And I'll review the results personally when I return."

Joanna's stomach dropped. "Your son?"

"Dr. Cain Reed. He's-" Dr. Evans's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, frowned. "He's finishing up some paperwork. Maya will show you back in five minutes."

She was gone before Joanna could protest, swept out the door in a cloud of expensive scent and professional urgency.

Joanna sat back down. Her hands were shaking. A male doctor. She hadn't thought-she'd assumed, with a women's health clinic, with Dr. Marion Evans-

But she was in pain. She was scared. And she couldn't afford to go somewhere else, to start this process over, to explain to another receptionist why she needed to be seen urgently.

Five minutes. She could do this. It was medicine. Clinical. Professional. It didn't matter that he was a man.

The door opened again. Maya, the receptionist, smiled at her. "Ms. Santana? Dr. Reed will see you now."

Joanna followed her down a hallway lined with framed diplomas and soft watercolor paintings. The examination rooms were at the end, doors closed, names on plaques. Maya stopped at the last one.

"Change into the gown, please. The opening goes in the back. Dr. Reed will be in shortly."

She left. Joanna was alone.

The room was warm. Too warm. She looked at the examination table with its paper covering, the stirrups folded against its sides, the lamp mounted on the wall. She'd been in rooms like this before. Annual exams. Pap smears. The clinical indignity of spreading her legs for a stranger while making small talk about the weather.

But never like this. Never with the memory of last night still raw in her body, still aching with every step.

Joanna undressed. Folded her jeans and sweater neatly on the chair-habit, always neat, always organized-and pulled on the blue paper gown. It crinkled when she moved. It didn't cover enough. Her ass was cold against the paper sheet as she climbed onto the table, as she lay back and put her feet in the stirrups.

The position was vulnerable. Exposed. She stared at the ceiling, counting the tiles, trying not to think about what was coming.

Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Male. Not the quick, efficient tap of nurse's shoes.

The door opened.

"Ms. Santana."

The voice stopped her heart.

It was low. Controlled. Familiar in a way that made every hair on her body stand up. Joanna's head snapped toward the door, and she saw him-

White coat. Stethoscope. Dark hair that was slightly mussed, like he'd been running his hands through it. Gray eyes that locked onto hers with the intensity of a predator spotting prey.

It was him.

The man from last night. The stranger. The voice in the dark that had said her name like a prayer and a curse.

Joanna's mouth opened. No sound came out. Her brain was screaming, run, hide, this isn't happening, but her body was frozen, pinned to the examination table by the weight of his gaze.

He stepped into the room. Closed the door behind him. The click of the latch was loud in the silence.

"Lie back, please." His voice was professional. Detached. Nothing like the rough growl she remembered from the dark. "I need to complete the examination."

Joanna didn't move. Couldn't move. "You-" Her voice was a whisper. "You're not-"

"Dr. Cain Reed." He pulled on a pair of latex gloves, the snap of elastic against skin making her flinch. "At your service."

He approached the table. Joanna tried to sit up, to cover herself, but her arms wouldn't cooperate. He was between her legs in three strides, his height putting him in a position to see everything-the paper gown rucked up around her hips, her knees trembling in the stirrups, the most private parts of her exposed to his clinical, terrifying gaze.

"Your chart says you're experiencing pain." He picked up her file, scanned it with eyes that gave nothing away. "Post-coital tearing. Severe enough to warrant urgent consultation."

Joanna felt her face burn. She wanted to die. She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her. She wanted-

"Look at me."

The command was soft. Unmistakable. Joanna's eyes found his despite every instinct screaming at her to look away.

"You ran." He said it like a diagnosis. Like he was commenting on a symptom. "This morning. From my bed. Without a word."

"I-" Joanna's voice cracked. "I didn't know-this isn't-"

"Isn't what?" He set down the chart. His gloved hands found her knees, pressed them wider in the stirrups. "Isn't appropriate? We passed appropriate twelve hours ago, wouldn't you say?"

The light clicked on. Bright, clinical, illuminating everything. Joanna squeezed her eyes shut, tears leaking from the corners.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, I can't-"

"You can." His voice was closer now. She felt his breath against her inner thigh, hot through the latex of his gloves. "And you will. Because I'm the only one who knows exactly where it hurts, aren't I?"

His fingers touched her. Not inside, not yet, just a gentle pressure against the swollen, tender flesh that made her gasp and arch away from the contact.

"Sensitive," he murmured. "As I suspected."

Joanna's hands found the edges of the examination table, gripped until her knuckles turned white. "You're not-your mother said-you're not even a gynecologist."

"No." The admission came without shame. "I'm an investor. A businessman. But I am a physician, Ms. Santana. And more importantly-" His fingers pressed deeper, finding the exact spot where she ached, where she burned. "I'm the man who did this to you. Which makes me uniquely qualified to treat it."

Joanna's sob escaped before she could stop it. Humiliation and something else-something traitorous that responded to his touch despite everything-warred in her chest.

"Why?" she managed. "Why are you doing this?"

She felt him shift. Felt the heat of his body closer, closer, until his mouth was against her ear and his words were for her alone.

"Because you ran." A whisper. A promise. "And I don't like losing what's mine."