Total Destruction: A Game Of Fatal Obsession

Francesca hit the solid wall of a chest before she even saw the man standing in the narrow employee corridor.

The impact knocked the breath out of her lungs. She stumbled back, her rubber-soled hospital shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor. The smell of cheap hospital disinfectant was instantly overpowered by the sharp, expensive scent of cedar and aged whiskey. It was a scent that did not belong in the staff wing of NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. It was a scent she had spent the last three years trying to scrub from her memory.

She looked up, and her stomach dropped to the floor.

Anton Corbett stood blocking her path. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed, casting harsh shadows over his sharp jawline and the cold, bottomless blue of his eyes. He wore a dark, custom-tailored Tom Ford suit that made the peeling paint of the corridor look even more pathetic. He looked exactly as he had three years ago, only harder, more untouchable, and entirely out of place.

Francesca could not breathe. Her lungs felt like they had been filled with wet cement. She took another step back until her shoulder blades hit the freezing concrete wall behind her. Her blue scrubs were damp with sweat from an eight-hour surgery, clinging uncomfortably to her skin. She felt exposed. She felt small.

His eyes dragged over her cheap scrubs, taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the messy bun on top of her head. There was no warmth in his gaze. It was an assessment. He was looking at her the way a man looks at a tool he is about to use.

"Francesca."

His voice was a low rumble that vibrated right through her ribs. He did not ask how she was. He did not offer a greeting. He just dropped her name into the space between them like a command.

Francesca forced her throat to work. It felt like she was swallowing glass.

"Mr. Corbett." She used the formal title as a shield, though her voice shook. "What are you doing here?"

Anton ignored her question completely. He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. His movements were slow, deliberate, and reeked of absolute control.

"I need your help," he said.

The words made no sense to her. Anton Corbett did not need help from anyone, least of all the orphaned daughter of a ruined family who used to live in his guest house.

He pulled out a small, black velvet box and flipped it open with his thumb. The harsh hospital light caught the facets of a massive diamond necklace resting on white satin. The glare physically hurt Francesca's eyes. She blinked, her confusion morphing into a deep, primal dread.

"Hayden Dickerson," Anton said, his voice flat and businesslike. "Your friend. I am going to pursue her."

The world stopped spinning. The buzzing of the fluorescent lights vanished. All Francesca could hear was the frantic, deafening hammering of her own heart against her ribs.

Hayden. Her