The wooden frame of the bathroom door gave way with a deafening screech, sending jagged splinters flying through the dim air like shrapnel.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the sprawling, neon-lit arteries of Manhattan, but inside, the atmosphere was clinical, quiet, and overwhelmingly safe. Dr. Vance—a silver-haired man with sharp, intelligent eyes and hands that didn't tremble even by a millimeter—worked in a makeshift medical suite set up in one of the spare master bedrooms.

"Compound fracture of the ulna, significant swelling, and hairline cracks along three ribs," Dr. Vance diagnosed calmly as he snipped away the remnants of my torn blouse, replacing it with a soft, oversized cotton shirt. "You're lucky the bone didn't pierce the skin, young lady. Another millimeter and we’d be talking about vascular surgery."

I winced as he sprayed a cooling antiseptic over the bruised purple skin of my forearm, but I didn't cry out. I kept my teeth clenched, staring straight ahead at the panoramic view of the city skyline.

Standing in the corner of the room, leaning casually against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, was Vincent. He hadn't left my side since we walked through the front door.

"Will she have full mobility?" Vincent asked, his voice clipped and demanding.

"With proper physical therapy and a titanium pin to stabilize the bone, yes," Dr. Vance replied, opening a sterile metal case filled with surgical instruments. "It’s going to be painful, and it will take eight weeks to heal properly, but she'll recover full strength."

"Do whatever is necessary," Vincent instructed. "Spare no expense."

"Wait—surgery?" I looked up, panic flaring in my chest. "I... I don't have insurance. I can't pay for a surgeon, or a penthouse, or—"

"Who said anything about payment?" Vincent cut me off, pushing off the doorframe and walking slowly toward the examination table. He stopped right beside me, looking down with an expression that was impossible to read. "Debt is settled, Lena. You owe me nothing. Right now, your only job is to heal."

"And Marcus?" I whispered, the name feeling dirty on my tongue. "What happens to him?"

Vincent’s lips curled into a cold, humorless smile.

"Marcus is currently learning a very expensive lesson about property rights," Vincent said smoothly. "By tomorrow morning, his apartment will belong to a shell corporation, his bank accounts will be frozen under federal investigation for tax evasion, and he will wake up in a county jail three states away with no memory of how he got there."

A shiver ran down my spine—not of fear, but of absolute, shocking liberation.

"He'll never find you," Vincent added softly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers brushed my cheek, sending a sudden, electric jolt through my nervous system. "Nobody touches what belongs to me."

"Belong to you?" I repeated, my breath catching in my throat.