Chapter 3: The Rumors of Miss Taylor

Summer's POV

Fire. My whole body was on fire, and I couldn't make it stop. Through the haze of whatever they'd slipped into my drink, I was vaguely aware of being carried. The steady rhythm of footsteps. The soft ding of an elevator. That crisp, winter-fresh scent that somehow made the burning a little more bearable.

"So hot," I whimpered, pressing my face against the cool fabric of his suit. My skin felt like it was trying to crawl off my body. Everything hurt. Everything burned. "Please... make it stop."

The arms carrying me tightened slightly, but he didn't respond. Even in my drug-addled state, I could feel the tension radiating from him. Then we were moving again, the sound of a door opening, the soft click of expensive shoes on hardwood floors.

Suddenly, the world tilted as he shifted me in his arms. I heard water running, and then – oh god – ice-cold water hit my overheated skin. I gasped, trying to scramble away from the shock of it, but strong hands held me firmly in place.

"Stay still!" His deep voice brooked no argument, the command seeming to reverberate through my bones.

I shook my head frantically, my body fighting against both the drug's heat and the water's chill. "Cold... too cold..."

I heard him speaking into what must have been a bluetooth earpiece, his voice sharp and commanding. "James. I need ice. Every piece you can find. Bring it to my suite. Now."

There was a pause as he listened to the response. "Immediately, James."

The water continued to fill what I now realized was a massive bathtub, and I couldn't stop shivering. Part of me knew this was necessary – had to be necessary – but my body didn't care about logic. It just wanted to escape.

"Please," I begged. The burning hadn't stopped; if anything, it felt worse. Like my blood was trying to boil its way out of my veins.

He didn't reply, but one of his hands moved to my forehead, checking my temperature. The touch sent an electric shock through my system, and I arched involuntarily, seeking more contact with his cooler skin.

Minutes that felt like hours passed before I heard a quick, efficient knock at the door. Mr. Stark's hands never left me as he called out, "Enter."

"The ice, sir," James's voice was professionally crisp.

"Leave it there. Go."

I heard the door close, followed by the sound of Mr. Stark retrieving the ice and dumping it into the water. The temperature dropped even further, and I tried to launch myself out of the tub. But those strong hands caught me again, holding me in place with inexorable strength.

"Hold on," he murmured, his voice carrying an odd note of gentleness that seemed at odds with his forceful grip. "It'll be over soon."

I don't know how long we stayed like that – me thrashing weakly against his hold, him keeping me submerged in the ice bath with patient determination. Time had become a meaningless blur of fire and ice, burning and freezing. At some point, I think I started crying, but the water washed away any evidence.

Eventually, the burning began to fade, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion. My struggles weakened, then stopped entirely. The last thing I remember was his voice, low and reassuring: "Sleep now. You're safe."

---

I woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the worst headache of my life. For a moment, I just lay there, trying to piece together where I was. The bed was definitely not mine – the sheets felt like they cost more than my monthly rent. The room itself was equally luxurious, all cream and gold with tasteful modern art on the walls.

The Manhattan Club. The drugged drink. The mysterious Mr. Stark. The memories came flooding back, bringing with them a wave of anxiety. I sat up carefully, fighting back a wave of dizziness. My whole body felt like I'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champion.

Looking down, I realized I was wearing unfamiliar silk pajamas. My heart rate spiked until I did a careful self-assessment. No soreness, no marks, nothing to suggest... I took a deep breath. Okay. Okay. Let's think this through.

"Good morning, Miss Taylor."

The voice from the doorway made me jump. Mr. Stark stood there, impeccable in what had to be a Tom Ford suit, his dark eyes studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. In the harsh morning light, he looked even more striking than I remembered – all sharp angles and controlled power.

"Good..." My voice came out as a croak, and I winced at how raw my throat felt.

He moved into the room with fluid grace, picking up a glass of water from the bedside table and holding it out to me. The gesture was surprisingly considerate, though his expression remained unreadable.

"Thank you," I managed after taking a careful sip. My eyes caught on his hands as he withdrew them – long-fingered and elegant, but with a strength I remembered all too well from last night. Those hands had kept me from drowning myself in a drug-induced haze.

"About... about my clothes..." I started awkwardly, not quite sure how to phrase the question.

One corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Miss Taylor, don't worry. Nothing happened last night. The maid changed your clothes after the ice bath – a necessary precaution against hypothermia."

I nodded, relief washing through me. Then something clicked. "How do you know my name?"

The slight smile disappeared, replaced by something more calculating. "You've been quite the talk of Wall Street lately, Miss Taylor. The jilted fiancée who cursed her sister's engagement to Alexander Stark. Quite dramatic."

All the blood drained from my face. My hands started to shake, and I clutched at the silk sheets to hide it. Of course. Of course the story had spread. In the cutthroat world of Wall Street, this kind of scandal was better than currency.

"About the rumors concerning Miss Taylor," he continued, his dark eyes never leaving my face, "there are several versions. Which one would you like to hear?"

A chill ran down my spine at his tone. This wasn't just idle curiosity. This was... something else. Something purposeful.

"Who are you?" I whispered, my voice steadier than I felt. "What do you really want?"