arted around

n less than three seconds, her brain logged the single wooden door, the sealed re

he moved too quickly. The IV line taped to the back of her han

, freezing

our arm

tone voice came from th

corner and into the clinical light. His movements were completel

clear, unobstruct

e eyes, the dark hair. Kian Sinclair IV. The global A-list actor

sed it. Her facial muscles snapped into a cold, unreadable

l physical distance between them. He picked up a sealed plastic bo

le, unscrewed the plastic cap with her thumb, and took a s

in a private clinic?" Sera asked. Her voice was blunt, raspy, and co

slipped his hands in

Kian replied smoothly. "I prefer

g the silence str

ontinued, his tone entirely casual. "No police. No pres

in her lungs finally loosened. She wouldn't have to fight a corrupt legal

t was a curt, professiona

't ask about her knuckles. He turned around and quietly

defensive posture. She slumped back against t

distraction of a physical threat, the horrific memories of her p

embered the metallic clinking of the chains around her wrists. She reme

her face. She saw Ethan Vance's messy, familiar signature on the botto

mother, Patricia Beaumont, giving a tearful, highly produced press conference. Patricia had dab

up across her ribs and legs, ghost injuries from a

to the soft flesh of her palms. She pressed until the skin broke and a sharp, groun

ked at the red digital cloc

a sharp, electric jolt of realization. It was the spring of five years before her death

iverse had violently ripped her backward through time. It

blurted confession in the

liberately sent her to Room 402 under the guise of an exclusi

pletely evaporated. It was replaced b

to hide. She wa

led by her toxic family. Her industry contacts were shallow. But her combat sk

spoiled, useless Hollywood socialite-was the absolute

he was going to systematically dismantle their care

ark glass of the windowpane. A cold, predat