Wolfe Tower – Evening Commute, 9:00 p.m.
The elevators dinged open, releasing the last flood of executives and assistants into the marble lobby. Laughter echoed from the security desk. Heels clicked. Ties loosened. Car keys flashed.
The rain had started hours ago.
First, a whisper against the windows. Then a full-throated storm, washing the city in sheets of water and thunder.
Inside Wolfe & Co., the building was nearly empty. Everyone had gone home before the sky broke open — everyone except Talia Brooks and Adrian Wolfe.
She sat at her desk in the outer office, typing some janitorial memo with sore fingers and eyes that burned from exhaustion. A stack of paperwork Adrian had handed her earlier still waited. No complaints. No extensions. Just a curt command:
"Finish it tonight."
He hadn't even looked up from his screen when he said it.
Now it was nearly 10:30PM.
Talia stood, gathered the files into a neat stack, and walked them into Adrian's office. He was still seated behind his desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, sipping from a glass of scotch.
"I've finished, sir."
He glanced at the files, then at her. Not a flicker of acknowledgment in his expression. Just a nod.
"You can go."
No thank you. No concern. Just dismissal.
She hesitated. "The rain's still coming down hard."
He looked back at his computer screen. "Take an umbrella."
"I didn't bring one," she said, voice low.
His gaze didn't lift. "Then wait it out. Or call a ride. You're resourceful."
And with that, Adrian Wolfe stood, grabbed his coat, and walked past her — silent, sure, untouched by the weather or the hour.
She followed quietly, her heels echoing against the marble floor of the lobby.
He reached the revolving glass doors, stopped for a second, then walked through them into the rain. His driver was already waiting, black car engine running, headlights cutting through the storm.
Talia stood inside, by the security desk, watching.
He didn't look back.
He got into the car, and the doors shut.
And just like that… he was gone.
The car vanished into the rain-slick street.
She was left with nothing but her tote bag, the sound of water slapping the pavement, and a bitter chill that reached past her coat.
Talia Brooks stepped out of the staff elevator, shoulders sagging, and eyes heavy with fatigue. Her apron was still on. Her sneakers soaked through with mop water hours ago. Her back ached.
Talia Brooks stood at the edge of Wolfe Tower's service gate, arms wrapped tightly around her waist, damp hair sticking to her cheeks. Her shift had ended but she had to wait for then rain to stop.
It didn't. And the rich?
They had all driven past her — sleek cars, dry seats, laughter behind tinted glass.
She had none of that.
Just sore feet and the ache for home.
I just want to see Mama. I just want to smell stew in the kitchen. I just want… to breathe.
She adjusted her backpack strap, pulled her hood low, and started to walk.
Rain slicked the sidewalks. Her shoes soaked through within minutes.
Still, she walked. One step. Then another.
Until her legs began to tremble from exhaustion, and she ducked into an abandoned alleyway just to rest.
That's when she heard it. Low laughter.
Footsteps. Three. Maybe four.
She turned. Too late.
Men. Shadows. Faces she didn't know. Words she didn't want to hear.
"Pretty thing walking alone?"
"Come on, now… don't be rude."
She stepped back, heart crashing against her ribs.
One of them grabbed her wrist.
"Don't touch me!" she screamed, voice cracking.
They dragged her backward — into a hollow warehouse structure just off the main road.
Her screams were drowned by the rain and metal slams.
One hand covered her mouth. Another yanked her coat.
Talia fought — scratched — kicked — but they were stronger.
Too strong.
Tears blurred her eyes.
"Please… please don't—"
One of them laughed. Another stepped closer, reaching for her arm.
"You look expensive for a cleaner."
Talia backed into the corner, hands trembling.
"I'll give you anything," she choked. "Anything, just don't touch me—please."
"Oh, we don't need money," one of them sneered. "We just want to have a little fun—"
"STOP!"
Her voice broke the air.
"I'm a virgin."
The words tumbled out raw. Unfiltered. Desperate.
"I swear to God, I've never—never even—" her breath hitched, "please, don't take that from me."
The men paused.
One of them blinked. Another scoffed like he didn't believe her — but they hesitated.
Just long enough.
Just enough for headlights to flash outside.
Sirens. Shouting. Doors bursting open.
"NOBODY MOVE!"
Flashlights cut through the darkness. The men scattered — or tried. Uniformed officers tackled them in seconds.
A female officer found Talia slumped in the corner, still crying, her body untouched but shaking as if she'd shattered from the inside out.
The officer wrapped a jacket around her shoulders, knelt down.
"You're safe. It's over."
Talia covered her face with her hands. She wasn't crying just from fear.
She was crying because she'd found the one thing that saved her —
her voice.
Flashing red and blue lights paint the alley walls. Paramedics kneel beside Talia, working swiftly.
"She's responsive but disoriented. Possible concussion. Bruising on the wrists and inner thighs. Keep pressure here—she's got a cut on the forehead."
They lift her gently onto a stretcher. She cries out.
"Easy, ma'am. You're safe now. We've got you."
She murmurs, "Don't… don't let him touch me again…"
They exchange looks—somber, knowing.
"We won't. We promise."
A police officer snaps photos of the scene. A female officer gently collects the remains of Talia's torn blouse. "We'll need to do a kit at the hospital. No one touches anything."
St. Luke's Medical Center – Trauma Bay – 1:00 a.m.
The ER doors swing open. The air inside is sterile, humming with quiet urgency.
Talia is rushed in.
Nurses surround her. Gloves snap. Vitals are called out. Clothes are cut away. A blanket is draped over her. But nothing feels safe. Every face is a blur. Every hand feels like a threat.
A soft voice cuts through the chaos.
"Hi, Talia. My name's Dr. Kaylen. I'm here to take care of you. You're not alone."
Talia can't speak. She stares at the ceiling—expression hollow. A single tear rolls into her ear.
Dr. Kaylen leans in. "Talia, can I do a few things to help? I'll tell you everything before I do it, and you can say no at any time, okay?"
Talia gives the faintest nod.
The nurse whispers, "Her ID says Wolfe & Co."
Dr. Kaylen frowns. "She's one of theirs?"
The nurse nods. "Should we notify someone?"
"Not yet. Let's stabilize her first."
ADRIAN'S PENTHOUSE, 12:00 a.m.
It was late at night. The rain has eased to a mist, the city lights glistening through floor-to-ceiling windows. The silence is heavy.
The ice in Adrian's glass had melted, leaving the whiskey weak and untouched.
He was still in his shirt sleeves, tie discarded on the counter, jacket thrown carelessly over a chair. The apartment was warm, lit by the soft amber glow of a single lamp.
But he hadn't moved in almost an hour.
His mind kept circling back — not to the meeting he'd had earlier, not to the dinner with investors, not even to the reports stacked on his desk.
To her.
Talia Brooks.
Soaked to the skin, cardigan clinging to her shoulders, hair dripping down her cheek. That small, quiet moment when she'd stepped into the rain outside the building — no umbrella, no shelter — replayed like a silent reel.
He told himself she was resourceful. Capable. That she'd get home, dry off, and wake up like nothing happened. That it wasn't his responsibility.
But something about the image sat wrong.
Maybe it was the way she hadn't asked for help. Maybe it was the fact she hadn't looked back at him, even once, before walking away. Or maybe it was that she hadn't expected him to care — and she was right.
Adrian ran a hand over his jaw, staring out at the slick black streets below. A car passed, headlights reflecting off the wet asphalt, and for a second he pictured her still walking, shoes soaked, carrying the weight of exhaustion in each step.
The thought tightened something in his chest — something he didn't like.
He reached for his phone. Scrolled to her name.
Thumb hovered over the screen.
Then he locked it and set it back down.
Regret was a useless emotion.
But tonight, it was the only thing in the room with him.