The Fallen Heiress's Debt to the Billionaire

The door clicked shut. The silence in the room was heavy. It pressed against Felicity's ears.

She was still on the floor. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself. She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

Dewitt stood over her. He looked at the exposed skin of her back where the dress had torn completely. He saw the map of bruises. Old yellow ones. Fresh purple ones.

He felt a muscle in his jaw jump.

His eyes narrowed at the jacket she was clutching-Barnett's. With a motion of pure revulsion, he ripped the garment from her shoulders and tossed it into the corner as if it were contaminated. He took off his own suit jacket. He dropped it over her.

"Put it on," he said.

Felicity flinched as the heavy fabric landed on her. She grabbed the lapels, pulling it tight. It smelled like sandalwood and expensive tobacco. It smelled like safety.

She tried to stand up. Her ankle gave way. She gasped.

Dewitt made a noise in his throat. Impatience.

He reached a hand down to help her.

Felicity scrambled back. She pushed herself along the floor until her back hit the wall. Her eyes were wide, terrified.

"Don't touch me!"

Dewitt's hand froze in mid-air. His eyes narrowed.

"I'm not him," he said coldly.

He withdrew his hand. He walked to the mini-bar and poured a glass of water. He didn't pour whiskey. He poured water.

He walked back and held it out.

"Drink this. Then fix yourself up. I don't want Henderson finding a corpse in the guest room."

Felicity looked at the glass. Then at him. She slowly reached out. Her hand shook so much that water sloshed over the rim.

She took the glass and drank. She drained it in one go.

"Thank you," she whispered. Her voice sounded like sandpaper.

Dewitt walked to the velvet armchair in the corner. He sat down and lit a cigarette. He crossed his legs.

"You have five minutes," he said.

Felicity blinked. "You're... staying?"

"This is my room," Dewitt said. "And I don't trust you not to steal the silverware."

It was a lie. He was staying because he saw the way she looked at the window. He was staying because he didn't trust her not to jump.

Felicity grabbed the front of his jacket. She stood up, leaning heavily on her good leg.

She limped into the bathroom and locked the door.

Dewitt listened to the click of the lock. He took a drag of his cigarette. His hand was trembling slightly. Just a little.

He looked at the blood on the carpet.

He pulled out his phone. He texted Henderson.

Bring a first aid kit. And a woman's outfit. Something warm. Now.

Felicity slid down the bathroom door until she hit the cold tile floor. She put her head between her knees and tried to breathe.

In. Out. In. Out.

She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked like a war zone. Her lip was swollen to twice its size. Her mascara was running down her cheeks in black rivers.

She turned on the tap. She splashed cold water on her face. The sting made her hiss.

She needed to get out of this torn dress. She needed to put on Dewitt's jacket properly.

She reached behind her back to undo the zipper. But there was no zipper. Barnett had ripped it. The torn fabric had snagged on the mangled zipper, creating a hopeless tangle at the small of her back.

She tugged at it. Her fingers were slippery with sweat and water. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

"Come on," she whimpered.

She pulled harder. The knot tightened. It dug into her spine.

She twisted her body, trying to see it in the mirror. A sharp pain shot through her shoulder-the one Barnett had wrenched earlier.

She tried again. And again.

Five minutes passed.

She couldn't do it. She was trapped in the ruin of her own life.

A sob escaped her throat. Then another. She clamped a hand over her mouth, but the dam broke. She cried. Not loudly. Just a pathetic, gasping weeping.

Knock. Knock.

"Time's up," Dewitt's voice came through the door.

Felicity froze. She wiped her eyes frantically.

"I... I need a minute," she choked out.

"Open the door, or I'm coming in."

"I can't!"

Dewitt didn't wait. He strode to a large oil painting on the corridor wall beside the bathroom, swung it open on a hidden hinge, and retrieved a master key from a small, concealed safe. The lock clicked. Of course he had a key.

The door opened.

Dewitt stood there. He looked annoyed.

"What is taking so-"

He stopped.

Felicity was standing by the sink. Her back was to him. She was clutching the front of her dress to her chest.

Her back was bare.

And it was covered in bruises.

Handprints on her arms. A dark purple welt across her ribs. And angry red chafe marks around the knot in the fabric.

Dewitt stared. The annoyance evaporated. This was the price of the game she was playing. He'd seen it before-women who let things get rough to drive up the price or satisfy a client's depraved tastes. It was just another transaction, uglier than most. But the sheer brutality of it sent a cold stone dropping into his stomach.

Felicity tried to twist away, to hide her back against the wall.

"Don't look!"

Dewitt stepped into the bathroom. The space suddenly felt very small.

He reached out and put his hands on her shoulders. He didn't squeeze. He just held her in place.

"Stop moving," he said. His voice was different. Deeper. Softer.

He looked at the knot. It was pulled so tight the fabric had become a hard lump.

Felicity trembled under his hands. His palms were warm.

"I can't get it off," she whispered. "I'm stuck."

Dewitt looked at the bruises around the knot.

"Damn it," he muttered.

Dewitt tried to work his fingernail under the tangled fabric. The silk was wet and unyielding.

Felicity flinched when his knuckle brushed her skin.

"Sorry," he said automatically.

He let go of her. "We need to cut it."

He turned and walked out of the bathroom.

Felicity stood there, shivering. Was he leaving? Was he getting security?

He came back ten seconds later. He was holding a silver letter opener. It was long and sharp, with a handle made of mother-of-pearl.

Felicity saw the blade.

Her breath hitched. She backed up until her hips hit the sink.

"No," she gasped.

Dewitt stopped. He saw her eyes tracking the blade.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said. "Turn around."

Felicity shook her head.

"Turn around, Felicity. Unless you want to wear that rag forever."

She hesitated. Then, slowly, she turned her back to him. She squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for pain.

She felt the cold metal slide between the fabric and her skin. Dewitt's hand was steady. He lifted the blade away from her body.

Snip.

The tension released instantly. The dress fell open.

Dewitt pulled the fabric away. He picked up his suit jacket from where she had dropped it and draped it over her shoulders again.

"Henderson left some clothes on the bed," he said. "Put them on."

He turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Felicity let out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

She quickly stripped off the ruined dress and kicked it into the corner. She went into the bedroom. On the bed was a pair of grey sweatpants and a soft cashmere sweater.

She put them on. The fabric was like a cloud against her battered skin.

She looked around. The room was empty. Dewitt was gone.

The letter opener was sitting on the nightstand.

Felicity walked over and picked it up. It was heavy. Sharp.

She went to the door. She locked it. Then she dragged a heavy wooden chair from the desk and wedged it under the door handle.

She turned off the lights.

She didn't get in the bed. The bed smelled like Barnett's cologne.

She curled up on the chaise lounge by the window. She tucked the letter opener into the waistband of her sweatpants, pressing it against the small of her back. Her hand stayed resting near the handle.

Outside, the wind howled around the penthouse.

Felicity closed her eyes.