Taming The Sinner: The Doctor’s Cold Game

Helena stood before the double doors of the master suite, her hand hovering inches from the cold, polished brass of the handle. The hallway of the Alexander estate was silent, a heavy, oppressive silence that smelled of lemon polish and old money, the kind of silence that usually preceded a scream. She could hear the blood rushing in her ears, a rhythmic thumping that drowned out the ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs. She closed her eyes for a second, inhaling deeply through her nose, counting to four, holding for seven, exhaling for eight. It was a technique she used before picking up a scalpel, a way to steady the tremor in her hands.

She didn't need a scalpel tonight. She needed ice.

She pushed the mahogany door open. It swung inward on silent, well-oiled hinges. The room beyond was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the bedside lamps and the city lights filtering through the sheer curtains. The air inside was different-thick, cloying. It smelled of expensive cigars, the musk of sweat, and a floral perfume that was too sweet, too aggressive. It was the scent of Jasmine.

Helena's eyes adjusted to the gloom. She didn't look at the faces first. She looked at the shapes. Two of them, tangled together on the king-sized bed that was covered in Egyptian cotton sheets she had selected from a catalog three weeks ago. The sheets were ruined now, twisted and stained with the reality of her engagement.

A high-pitched, breathy laugh cut through the air. The woman, Jasmine, propped herself up on her elbows, her hair a chaotic mess over her shoulders. She didn't look ashamed. She looked entertained. She looked at Helena standing in the doorway in her sensible beige dress and smirked, a predator toying with a wounded mouse.

"Did you get lost on the way to the kitchen?" Jasmine asked, her voice raspy.

Helena shifted her gaze. Authur was leaning back against the tufted leather headboard. He was naked from the waist up, his skin flushed, a thin sheen of perspiration highlighting the definition of his chest. A cigar smoked between his fingers, the ash dangerously close to falling onto the duvet. He looked at Helena with heavy-lidded eyes, devoid of guilt, devoid of affection. There was only a cold, sharp amusement in his gaze, like a scientist waiting to see how a specimen would react to a shock.

"Close the door, Helena," Authur said. His voice was a low rumble, rough with whiskey and smoke. "You're letting the draft in."

Helena didn't move to close the door. She didn't scream. She didn't let the tears that were burning the backs of her eyes spill over. Crying was a physiological response to stress, a release valve. She couldn't afford a release. Not when the Lawrence family stock price was hovering on a razor's edge, dependent entirely on this merger going through tomorrow.

She walked into the room. Her heels sank into the plush Persian rug, silencing