Chapter 2 THE BILLIONAIRE'S DILEMMA

The night peels itself back in layers of pain. I lurch into the alley behind The Velvet Noose as rain poured generously on me, barely keeping upright. Every breath is a blade. Every step, a battle. The drug Erosyne wrecks me from the inside out, twisting need into agony.

My skin buzzes like it's been set alight. The damp air cuts no relief. My clothes feel wrong, abrasive, heavy, cruel. I don't care where I land. Only that it's away.

My knees buckle beneath a flickering streetlamp. I hit the pavement hard, curling near the dumpster, panting.

Two hours. That's how long I have before this thing melts my brain from the inside. I press my cheek to the wet asphalt. Maybe I'll just disappear here. Become a headline. Or not even that.

Then, Tires shriek. A black Rolls-Royce slides to a halt inches from my outstretched hand. A door opens.

A man drops beside me, swearing low. His voice It's the kind of voice born in boardrooms and whispered about in wealth columns. I lift my head, just barely.

He looks Early-to-mid thirties. Hazel-colored eyes, expensive jawline, wet hair slicked back like some fallen angel. His suit clings to him, ruined by the rain but still unmistakably expensive. Then I let out a wry smile, I know that face.

Ryder Volkov. Tech baron and CEO Neurauto Inc. An Island buyer. The kind of man who could ruin a country with a well-timed silence. He stretched forth his arms reaching for me, his fingers pressing gently to my throat, as he checked my pulse. I flinch not because Volkov Ryder touched me but the effects of his touch on my body.

"Hey, what's your name? I'm Ryder."

"Don't.." My voice cracks as I cough. "Alesha." I managed to say.

His brows pull together. "You're burning up." His tone sharpens. "Who did this to you?"

I don't answer. No I can't answer him. My mouth feels disconnected from my brain.

"Tell me what they gave you." He asked again in a fierce tone.

I manage one word. "Erosyne."

His face darkens instantly. "Fuck." He cursed out loud. He knows. Of course he knows. A man like him doesn't stay rich without understanding what's sold in the dark corners of his city.

Before I can object, like if I even wanted to, which I couldn't. he lifts me. Effortless. Like I weigh nothing.

He laid me on the leather seats. The clean scent of sandalwood. The door slams shut.

Ryder

She's dying in my backseat. And I know exactly how it ends. At Monaco. Two years ago. A girl just like her, twitching on imported marble while diplomats scrambled for silence. That was the first time I heard the name Erosyne. A synthetic fire. Unrelenting, illegal, and irreversible after two hours without... release. This isn't arousal. It's a chemical execution.

I poke at my phone. Dialing Dr. Chu's line but it never went. Then Dr. Langley." Nothing still.

She mumbled and writhes in the seat, arms clutching her stomach. Her nails rake her thighs, trying to tear the fire out.

"It Hurts..." she whimpers. I curse under my breath. There's no time for a hospital and there is none nearby. No antidote stocked in any goddamn pharmacy, this is all fucked up. There's only one way to stop it. God help me.

THE PENTHOUSE

Rain hammers the glass walls of my penthouse like fists. I carry her into the room, my heart beat louder than the storm.

She's burning up in my arms, my sweat clinging to her, her body arching in violent tremors, Not from pleasure. From overload. The kind no one walks away from unless someone intervenes.

I laid her on the bed, but she doesn't settle. Her fingers claw at the sheets, she went into spasms as though trying to escape her own skin. The drug is doing exactly what it was made for. Forcing a need so consuming it devours everything one's dignity, will, reason.

Her eyes fly open, pupils blown wide. "Make it stop," she gasps. "Please God." There's no God here. Just me.

And I am the last person she should have to beg. I stare down at her, rainwater dripping from my sleeves onto her burning skin. She moans then closes her mouth like she's ashamed of the sound. That sound goes straight to a place I don't want to admit exists.

"This isn't about want," I tell her quietly, more to myself than to her. "It's about surviving." She can't answer. Her body is a battlefield, nerves raw and exposed.

I shed my jacket. Then the shirt. I meet her eyes again. And see it. Not fear, not consent, either. But will power. "Are you sure? I should do this." I asked her immediately she calmed down for a few seconds.

"Y-yes," she whispers, although barely audible. "Just... do it." It's permission, but it's all she has left. My stomach tightens. I hate myself for what comes next. But I move anyway. Because two hours is a death sentence. And I've already waited too long.

She's asleep now. Finally still. I sit at the edge of the bed, drenched, shaking. Not from vigorous action earlier but from shame. Yes, I saved her life but it seems like I raped her. I don't sleep with drugged people but I did this to save her. The sheets are twisted, damp with rain and sweat. The duvet covered her chest down. She's the exact opposite of last night. Now she's calm and most importantly alive.

That's the only truth I can cling to.

Outside, the storm begins to clear.

Inside, I feel like I've crossed a line no amount of redemption will erase.

I pace the length of the window, watching the city blink back to life. Behind me, the silence is deafening.

My phone vibrates. Dozens of missed calls, security, board members, a few I don't recognize.

They can wait. Because all I can see is her face. The alley. That impossible look in her eyes. Not fear. Not surrender. But boldness. Like she refused to breakeven then. And God help me, I didn't save her.

I made a choice. One I'll have to live with.