Scarlett' POV

Cold rain seeped down my collar.

I huddled in the back alley of Nonna's, where the stench of garlic mixed with rotting garbage made me nauseous.

I'd checked the address on my phone at least ten times.

No mistake. This was the place.

Clara had said in her text—11 p.m. sharp, Mr. Peterson would be here.

Under the neon sign in the back alley. Cash on delivery.

I pulled my discounted Macy's coat tighter around me.

Damn it. Leaking again.

Warm milk spread across my chest in a small wet patch, mixing with the rain—sticky, clinging to my skin with that milky scent.

I rubbed at it with my hand, but that only made it worse.

Scarlett, why didn't you put on nursing pads before leaving the house?

Can't even afford a $2.99 box of Lansinoh?

No. I really couldn't.

Mia and Nina's surgery fees weren't even close to covered. What right did I have to buy anything for myself?

At least Clara had helped me track down the medication. Mr. Peterson was a good man, willing to sell it cheap.

Otherwise, I'd still be scrambling for surgery money.

Just then, the restaurant's back door slammed open from the inside.

Classical music and the clinking of glasses poured out, Italian chatter washing over me like a wave.

Then the door was yanked shut again with force.

A tall man stumbled out, leaning against the brick wall.

Right under that glaring neon sign.

My heart skipped a beat.

The man who'd staggered out had a body like a damn athlete—

Broad shoulders, narrow waist, black racing jacket unzipped halfway down.

He was drenched in sweat and rain, skin flushed red under the neon glow. A cut above his right eye was bleeding down his face.

I swallowed hard.

He was gorgeous.

But also terrifying.

His gaze paused for a second on the wet stain across my chest, then moved to my face. He froze.

His expression shifted—confusion? Suspicion? I couldn't tell.

Instinctively, I shrank further into the corner, crossing my arms over my chest.

"You the… apology Andrew's kid sent over?"

His voice was hoarse, brow furrowed like he was in pain.

"How long you been doing this?"

I blinked.

His English was peppered with Italian, and I only caught two words.

"Sent over. How long?"

I stammered. "Yes, sir. I've… I've been here for ten minutes."

Clara hadn't mentioned Mr. Peterson's age, only that he drank a lot.

But this was ridiculous. He looked barely twenty, yet he ran New York's biggest black-market drug operation?

He swayed toward me, eyes dark and unreadable.

I quickly straightened my clothes, trying to look as composed as possible.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Hello, sir. I… I'm Lettie. My full name is—"

"Get in the car."

He cut me off, jerking his chin toward a sleek black luxury car parked at the curb.

I froze.

Was he taking me straight to get the medication?

I hurriedly texted Clara.

Late-night New York was way too dangerous.

Clara: [The meds are usually kept at a specific storage site. If Mr. Peterson tells you to go, just go. Don't ask questions!]

Fine. For my two little angels, I'd risk it this once.

"Sir, we agreed on $800. You're not backing out, right…?"

The man looked me up and down, then nodded impatiently. "Quit stalling. Get in."

I patted my chest in relief.

Mr. Peterson might be young, but he radiated an air of cold nobility and sharpness.

One icy glance from him was enough to make my legs tremble.

The moment I slid into the back seat, I caught the scent of expensive leather and a crisp, woody fragrance.

Dry. Refined.

A stark contrast to the lingering milky smell clinging to me.

I clutched the hem of my coat self-consciously and pressed myself into the corner.

The car glided smoothly into the Upper East Side of Manhattan, stopping for ten minutes at New York's most expensive private hospital.

When he came out, the cut on his forehead was bandaged, and he carried a small cooler box.

Inside, it had to be the medication I needed.

Half an hour later, the car stopped in front of a luxury apartment building.

He leaned against the elevator wall, irritably loosening his tie, his long fingers drumming rhythmically on the cooler.

Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.

My heartbeat quickened in time.

What was he implying? That I should be smart and add a little tip later?

The door opened.

My jaw dropped.

This was a penthouse apartment that would make anyone scream.

Massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the glittering nightscape of New York, Central Park's lights forming a ribbon of brilliance that stretched from beneath our feet all the way to the horizon.

I stood frozen in the entryway, afraid my Nikes would leave dirty prints on the pristine marble floor.

"Why are you standing there? You need me to invite you in?"

His gaze fell unapologetically on the damp spot across my chest, his brow knotting tighter. "Go wash yourself."

My face burned.

Humiliating. Shameful.

Scarlett, you really outdid yourself—coming to buy medication and leaking milk all over your shirt. How embarrassing.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm breastfeeding right now…"

"Bathroom's on the right. Go wash yourself inside and out. I've only got an hour."

He yanked off his tie and tossed it onto the couch.

I was confused.

I was just here to buy medication. Why did I need to shower?

Oh. I got it.

The medication was kept in a sterile cooler. I was too dirty to touch it.

But in my nervousness, I didn't realize that if that were the case, disinfecting my hands would've been enough.

When I stepped into the bathroom—bigger than my bedroom—I thought I'd walked into the wrong place.

No faucets on the walls. No switches.

Everything was embedded in white marble.

I circled the bathroom three times, nearly crying in frustration.

Did it need a password? Fingerprint? Face scan?

After fumbling around for almost twenty minutes, drenched in sweat, I cursed at the wall: "Shower on."

The water finally came on.

The damn bathroom was voice-activated.

I pushed open the bathroom door wrapped in a bathrobe, and as the steam cleared, I saw what was outside.

For some reason, he'd changed into a black silk robe, the belt tied loosely at his waist.

The wide collar hung open, fully exposing his powerful chest and neatly defined abs.

His V-line was sharply visible, his torso without an ounce of excess fat.

One long leg was casually draped over the edge of the wide bed, his fingers toying with a sterling silver lighter.

Dangerously handsome—the kind of man you shouldn't get close to, like in the movies.

"Thirty-five minutes," he said impatiently, rolling his eyes. "You seriously wasted my time."

My heart sank.

"I'm sorry, sir. It's my first time… I don't have experience. I promise it won't happen again!"

At those words, a flicker of disgust crossed his face.

Lettie, don't be upset.

Rich people are always difficult, picky. You know that.

But for Mia and Nina, I'd endure any humiliation.

The man took a deep breath and lifted his chin arrogantly in my direction.

"Come here."

I walked over obediently.

"Kneel."

My mind went blank.

"I… I don't understand, sir."

He looked at me expressionlessly. "I only say things once."

I knelt on the carpet, my body trembling uncontrollably.

I was just here to buy medication. Why did I have to kneel?

Rich people really were all the same—not a single decent one among them.

This was too much.

"Good."

His long fingers suddenly clamped around my jaw, gripping my face as he examined me from side to side.

"The profile looks more like her…"

Then he said something that made my blood run cold.

"Lift your head. Arch your back. Stick your ass up. Hands on your knees. Spread your thighs open."

"Squeeze out some milk… get yourself nice and wet. I like it slippery."