The Don’s Dangerous Addiction

Before her appointment, Avery received an anonymous card.

There was no signature on the card. Only one line: "047 is waiting for you. Don't disappoint him."

She flipped it over. Nothing on the back.

"047." Was that some kind of number code?

She had no idea what it meant. But the feeling of being set up in advance made her palms sweat.

Avery tucked the card into her pocket, along with the final notice that had arrived from the sanatorium that morning.

A bill for her brother's life-sustaining medication—due next month. The amount was staggering enough to crush whatever pride she had left.

In Obsidian City, on the verge of a stormy night, she was out of options.

If she didn't secure the consultation f*e tonight, her brother's ventilator would be unplugged tomorrow without mercy.

She took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy wooden doors of Kessler Estate with cold, trembling fingers.

"Take it off yourself, or I'll do it."

In the darkness, the man's voice was low, hoarse, scraping against her eardrums with a chilling rawness.

Avery stood frozen, paralyzed.

As the heavy presence in the darkness drew closer, she felt the suffocating weight of his male physique looming over her. The air around her seemed to compress under his towering shadow, engulfing her in a scent of cold cedarwood, tobacco, and alcohol.

It was only at that moment that Avery's clinical mind finally caught up with her panic.

She observed the man with his back turned to her. Every breath he took came with an abnormal tremor, as if something inside his chest was violently pushing outward. She could see the veins in his neck, pulsing at an irregular, dangerous rhythm.

A flash of lightning split the sky, illuminating his face. It was a face like a fallen god—strikingly beautiful, yet etched with madness, now stark white in the sudden light.

Avery froze for a second.

His lips were tinged with greyish-purple. This wasn't ordinary poor circulation—it was cardiac insufficiency from physical exhaustion. His eyes were bloodshot, likely from recent, severe sleep disturbances. But his pupils were so dilated that his irises were nearly invisible—exhaustion and mania written across the same face, as if two opposing forces were tearing him apart from the inside.

She had seen faces like this in clinical practice before. Every case had been a nightmare to handle.

Avery pushed down that one second of shock and forced herself to put on her stiffest professional mask.

"Mr. Kessler, now is not the time to discuss my attire. Your heart rate is already over one-eighty. At this rate, you'll die by your own hand."

"My last doctor… your mentor," he suddenly lunged closer, "was in this very room, trying to send me to hell with a micro-bomb hidden on his body."

"And you think I'd let you get that close to me?"

His eyes swept over her. This was not the gaze of a doctor's patient. This was a wolf sizing up its prey before devouring it whole.

His gaze was slow, deliberate, insolent. It fixed on her collarbone first, then crawled downward inch by inch. The weight of his inspection was so palpable it burned against her skin, raising goosebumps on her exposed flesh.

"If you want your payment, prove yourself first." His voice dropped to a low murmur. One hand hooked into her collar while the other waved a check between his fingers.

Avery opened her mouth to argue—but before she could speak, her trench coat was roughly yanked from her shoulders, her sweater torn open, her skirt falling in succession.

Avery was left in nothing but her thin underwear, exposed completely before him.

When the cold air hit her skin, raising a storm of goosebumps, she realized she had nowhere to hide.

Humiliation burned through her like wildfire, scorching from her chest to the tips of her ears. She bit down hard on her lower lip, forcing herself to stay silent. She turned her head away, fixing her gaze on a decorative painting on the wall, stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes. But her rationality quickly took over.

Twenty thousand dollars.

That was the price of a single session—and the cost of one full cycle of the specialty medication her brother needed at the private sanatorium. If it meant keeping her brother alive, she could swallow her pride and grind it to dust.

Ten sessions. A binding contract.

Until the final injection was complete, she could not leave this house. She could not refuse any of his orders.

Dominic's state had become increasingly erratic.

He was breathing heavily, his head slumped forward in exhaustion. His body—overloaded and unsteady—suddenly pitched forward without warning. His heavy, burning frame nearly collapsed onto Avery's shoulder.

"Enough."

Avery stepped forward. Her cool palm cupped his jaw, forcing his face up.

"You're dying, Dominic. Step back. Sit down."

She pushed him into the sofa without giving him a chance to resist. Then she quickly retrieved a syringe from her medical kit, found the right spot, and injected the sedative.

The scent of peach—from the struggle earlier—had seeped from her neck, thick and unmistakable. His hand slipped from the armrest, his fingertips brushing against the sensitive skin of her throat. The touch was cold, like the caress of death itself.

His eyes remained closed, but a broken whisper escaped his lips.

"...Is it you?"

Before Avery could react, his hand shot up like iron shackles, locking around her wrist and yanking her against his chest.

"I killed so many people looking for you..." His voice was a breathless murmur against her ear.

*Thump.* That was the wild, chaotic beat of Dominic's heart, hammering through his tense muscles and slamming against Avery's own chest without restraint.

His body burned like fire, nearly scorching her bare skin. The crushing pressure of his arm against her sent real fear through her, an undeniable shiver she couldn't suppress.

Looking for *who*? *Me?*

The thought sent her mind into a tailspin, his words echoing over and over: *"I killed so many people looking for you."*

There was no mob boss threat in that hoarse voice. Instead, it was filled with a desperate, obsessive longing—like a steel spike driven deep into her chest.

It took several seconds for her clinical instincts to reassert control. *Delirium?* Or a cognitive distortion triggered by the new medication? But the intensity of his fixation sent chills down her spine. This kind of subconscious projection meant he was identifying someone etched into his very soul—either burning hatred or consuming obsession.

The sedative spread quickly.

Ten seconds later, his full weight collapsed against her. Dominic had fallen into a deathlike sleep.

Trapped in his arms, Avery couldn't move. As she tried to push his heavy body away, her gaze fell on the inside of Dominic's wrist.

In the dim lamplight, there was an old, oddly shaped star-shaped scar.

Avery's pupils contracted violently. A familiar, terrifying chill flooded her entire body.

The outline of that scar was like a rusted key, unlocking a memory she had sealed away for seven years.

A phantom pain shot through her wrist, perfectly aligning with the tearing pain from that night on the gambling ship. The same crushing grip—a hand so powerful it had pinned her to the damp deck until she could barely breathe.

The salty air, the nauseating sway of the ship, the man who had taken her, and her own muffled sobs swallowed by the crashing waves…

Countless fragments came roaring back to life with that scar.

No. Impossible.

She held her breath, staring at the raised, faded line of the scar. Her fingers trembled uncontrollably.

There were too many scars in this world with similar shapes. But when Dominic tightened his grip in his sleep—that bone-crushing pressure—it aligned perfectly with the violence in her memory.

It was too similar.

Not just the scar, but that unyielding savagery that even sleep couldn't soften.

If he *was* that man, she had just willingly walked into the arms of her abuser.

Yet, with his eyes closed, the cruel lines of Dominic's face had softened into something almost vulnerable—almost childlike. The devil of the day looked, in his dreams, like a pitiful patient trapped by nightmares.

The contrast tore at her heart.

She pushed herself up, trying to break free from his grip. Her gaze inadvertently swept across the desk.

A letter sat there, sealed with wax. The seal bore the embossed letter "D," in gold.

Avery's breath caught.

Seven years ago, on that gambling ship, a black diamond ring had slipped from the man's finger. The ring was engraved with the same letter.

She stared at that envelope.

*Coincidence.* There were too many coincidences in this world.

Outside, the rain had stopped at some point. The room was silent except for Dominic's steady breathing. His grip on her remained unyielding, his palm burning against her skin with a dull, persistent pain.

Avery couldn't escape. She lay stiffly in his arms. She closed her eyes and trembled involuntarily.

Morning would come.

She was counting.

One down.

Nine left.

Avery didn't know when she fell asleep. When she woke, she was lying on the stiff leather sofa where she had treated Dominic the night before.

Morning light filtered through the windows. She looked around.

The room was starkly bare—cold grey walls, sharp metallic lines, and the lingering scent of tobacco and cedarwood pressing down on her like a weight.

Avery sat up abruptly, her eyes darting down to check herself.

The trench coat that Dominic had brutally torn from her the night before was now draped back over her shoulders, meticulously arranged.

What made her heart skip a beat was the button from the night before—the one that had popped off—now tucked neatly into her pocket.

Her fingers closed around the cold metal button, her knuckles white.

How could the same man who had ripped her clothes off in a frenzy calmly collect her button in the morning?

Dominic sat in a chair by the window. He had changed into a charcoal-black suit, no tie, the top button of his shirt open to reveal a line of pale, cool skin.

The madness of the night before seemed like a ghost. He was staring at his computer screen, tapping his fingers against the desk occasionally. There was no sign of the man who had lost control just hours ago.

"Twenty thousand dollars." His voice was cool, detached.

He opened a drawer and pulled out a check, already signed.

"This is your payment for last night."

He flicked it across the polished marble tabletop with his fingertip. It slid to a stop in front of Avery.

"Due to the side effects of the medication, my consciousness wasn't fully clear last night. I trust you understand, Dr. Clair, that certain unprofessional noises don't need to leave this room."

He was drawing a line. And he was warning her.

Avery reached out and quickly tucked the check into her coat.

"I understand." She took a deep breath and turned toward the door. "Since the first session is complete, I'll return according to the contract at the next scheduled—"

"Who said you could leave?"

Avery turned back to meet his gaze.

"I thought I made myself clear." She forced her professional mask back into place. "My brother requires care at the sanatorium, and your condition has entered the observation phase—"

"Observation phase means the doctor must remain within sight."

Dominic set down his coffee cup, crossed his long legs, and leaned back in his chair.

He pressed the intercom button on his desk.

"Dr. Clair needs to stay here until the ten sessions are complete."

His voice was low, calm—but his eyes never left her face. His gaze traced her trembling lashes and finally settled on the red marks around her wrist.

"Mr. Kessler, this is illegal confinement!"

"No, Dr. Clair."

Dominic rose and walked toward her, step by deliberate step.

"It's called contract enforcement. After all, if you happened to see something last night that you shouldn't have, the only reason you're still alive is that you haven't finished treating me yet."

He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could see the fine weave of his suit.

"Until the tenth injection is complete, you're not going anywhere."

Dominic's long fingers ghosted across her cheek, barely touching.

"Now, take a shower. The smell of peach on you... is bothering me."

Two black-suited bodyguards appeared at the door, blocking her path.

Avery gripped the check tightly and walked into the bathroom. The moment she locked the door behind her, Dominic's burning grip, his hoarse whisper of "Is it you," came roaring back into her mind.

She reached into her pocket, not even sure what she was afraid of.

And then—her phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

Avery stared at the screen and opened the message. It was an image. Black background, white text: "Project 030."

Her thumb hovered over the screen. Then a smaller line of text slowly appeared beneath it: "You're already inside."

Avery stared at those words, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat. She tried to take a screenshot—

Her screen went black.

The message... was gone.