I could say Charlie sent me up there with a girl? I think about that and my stomach twists. The first person that comes to mind is Lacey, but I could never, ever, ever ask her to do that. Ever. She's already fucked up enough as it is. No, the only other option would be Sloane, and that’s just as unacceptable. Even if it's only an act and no one is supposed to touch her, it's too risky. What if it goes wrong? What if Julio wants a taste? That's just something I wouldn't tolerate. We would both fucking die. "Won't work, Michael. We’ll need to find another way."

He doesn't argue the point. We stand in laden silence for a moment before he tucks his hand into his pockets. "Okay then, boss. Anything else for now?"

"Yeah. There is." Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck. This is possibly the worst idea I've ever had, but… Nope. I don't even have an excuse. I'm just an idiot. "I need you to go and see someone for me."

"The girl from last night?"

"Yeah. Her. I need you to give something to her." I put together what I want Michael to deliver and he leaves; the moment the door closes behind him I feel like chasing after him and punching the guy in the mouth for not pointing out how moronic I’m being. He is usually good at that, but this time he's just accepted what I've told him and gone. What the hell does that even mean? Instead of chasing after him, I pull out my phone and call him. I watch him down below on the streets as he feels his cell ring. He stops, looks back up at the window, pulling it out of his pocket and answering.

"Change your mind?"

I bite down on my jaw, closing my eyes. This changes everything. "No. Just…just don't leave her side until she does what I have asked, okay? Do not let her out of your sight."

"Dr Romera? Sloane? Hey, Sloane."

I shake my head, kicking my brain back into gear. Mikey, the intern, stands in front of me, wringing his hands. The abject terror all interns experience is a powerful and paralysing thing, and it still appears to have Mikey firmly in its grip. He blinks at me and I realize he's asked me something.

"What's up, Mikey? Have you killed one of my patients?" I probably shouldn't joke about that—it's a possibility after all. Mike is a weird green color, too, which doesn't exactly assuage my suddenly suspicious mind.

"I—there's a guy at the front desk to see you. He's been waiting for thirty minutes. The nurses said they wouldn't page you if it wasn't an emergency, and he wasn't family. And then Gracie wouldn't page you because he lied to her and said he was your brother."

I snort when I imagine Zeth trying to pass himself off as my brother. "How did she know he was lying?"

Mikey dithers, turning back down the corridor. He wants to get out of here bad. "Mostly because he was black and you aren't."

Black? I put my coffee cup down beside me, my attention suddenly one hundred percent fixed on the nervous kid in front of me. He fidgets, putting me on edge.

"He said if I didn't come back with you in ten minutes, he was going to torch my Jetta, Sloane. D’ya think… Is there any way we could…?” He points a thumb over his shoulder, wincing.

This guy may not actually be Zeth, but if he's threatening to firebomb someone's car, he undoubtedly has something to do with him. I groan and get to my feet—this is going to be awful. Mikey practically runs back to the reception, pausing to look safely over his shoulder in case I might not really be coming. When we arrive, Grace glares at Mikey with a deep disapproval. By coming to fetch me he has gone against her and that's the last thing you ever want to do around here. Grace is lord and overseer of this world. Mikey probably would have been better off kissing goodbye to his car. Sitting on a red fold-down chair in the waiting area, Michael, the doorman from last night, is waiting patiently, his hands folded in his lap.

His light brown eyes come alive when he sees me. He stands and approaches, dressed in the most beautiful grey suit—no way it isn’t designer—that compliments his mocha colored skin tone perfectly. “Ms. Romera.” He inclines his head politely. “Mr Mayfair told me I would find you here.”

“Mr. Mayfair?”

Michael’s eyes flicker—curiosity flaring and then disappearing just as quickly. “Zeth. He asked me to come and give you this.” He produces a black envelope from his breast pocket, sealed, and addressed with a single sweeping S, written in gold. I take it from Michael, scowling. Most people would have just sent a text message, but no. Not Zeth Mayfair (surely too ordinary a surname for him?). Michael gives me a friendly smile—how the hell he can set me at ease is a miracle. He’s the type of man other men run from, fast, and in the other direction, while begging for their lives.

“Do you know what’s in here, Michael?” I wave the envelope from side to side—something heavy and hard slides from the motion, and I can already feel what it is. That arrogant, manipulative…

“I do,” he informs me.

“Do I want to know?”

“Mr Mayfair insisted I wait here until I have witnessed you follow the instructions inside his letter.” His eyes are shining with mirth when he tells me this, like he’s enjoying the fury that blossoms on my face. I don’t have time for this. I don’t need it. I rip open the ridged, expensive black paper and tug out the note inside, which is just as thick and luxurious. There aren’t many words scrawled on the paper, but they’re powerful enough.