Chapter 2: The Boy Who Pulled the Fire Alarm

"...Open the door."

Michael’s voice, low and sharp, came with frantic knocking that pounded right through my chest. The thin walls shook with each blow.

I stretched out on my battered couch, grinning like a cat in the sun. So this trick worked again.

"Ryan, open the door." His fist rattled the chain lock, his voice rising with a kind of panic I’d only heard during quarterly reports or when his mom called about grandkids.

Are you scared I’ll die?

I glanced at my phone’s cracked screen, waited a beat, then shuffled to the door in my faded SpongeBob boxers, toes freezing on the warped linoleum. The hallway outside reeked of takeout and weed.

The door creaked open, instantly caught by Michael’s big hand—knuckles rough from years of basketball and gym time.

A moment later, he shoved the door open with a slam, the sound echoing off the empty walls. Mrs. Chen next door would definitely complain tomorrow.

Michael’s eyes swept over me, and the worry melted away, his handsome features icing over, like the Hudson in February. "What, didn’t you say you were going to die? How come you’re still alive?"

I’d gotten used to Michael’s voice over the years—frustrated, clipped, always a little superior. But his mocking tone still made my chest tighten.

I forced a smile, the kind I’d learned in foster homes for social workers. I watched his sweat-damp hair and tight jaw, and teased, "What’s this, Michael Donovan? You actually afraid something might happen to me?"

A flicker of regret crossed his face—the same flash I’d seen in board meetings when he let his guard down. For a second, my heart warmed, like whiskey in winter.

But then his words dumped ice water over my head.

"Haven’t there been enough incidents like this?" Michael sneered, eyes darting to a water stain on the ceiling. "You love threatening people with your life. So what do you want this time? Money? Attention? Another sad attempt at validation?"

The air went heavy, like those seconds after a car crash when you’re waiting for the pain.

My cheeks burned, and I found myself counting the cigarette burns on the carpet instead of looking at him. My lips felt dry as sandpaper. I scratched my scalp—old nervous habit—and mumbled, "I’m sorry..."

Five years ago, I’d fallen for Michael Donovan at a pretentious SoHo gallery. I’d chased him like a stray dog after a steak.

But Michael was straight as they come, immune to my best moves—Connecticut prep school armor and all.

When he hated me most, he changed his routine, switched subway lines, had his assistant screen every call.

So I got desperate. I called up an old dealer, bought something, and during a loud dinner on the Upper East Side, I slipped the drug into Michael’s wine while everyone fussed over someone’s engagement.

I regretted it the second it dissolved. Watching him flush on my bed, tricked into coming over for a "forgotten jacket," cold sweat drenched me. My courage shriveled up like a popped balloon.

My mouth went dry. I almost blurted out the truth, but the words stuck, heavy as lead. If Michael found out, I’d be dead to him forever. Restraining order, charges—his lawyer would chew me up and spit me out—probably before lunch.

I fumbled for my phone, ready to call for help, but Michael, still dazed, snatched it and pinned me to the bed, surprisingly coordinated for someone drugged.

"You’re the one who drugged me." Not a question—a fact. Even out of it, that Ivy League brain was working.

If I hadn’t known he was a lightweight, I’d have thought he was faking.

Despite his tie hanging askew, hair a mess, Michael looked eerily calm—like closing a deal, not confronting his stalker.

His tall frame pinned me, radiating heat. All that CrossFit paid off.

I wanted to lie, blame someone else. But staring at the face I’d obsessed over for years, all the words died in my throat.

This was Michael Donovan. The guy I’d wanted so long.

If I bailed, I’d never live it down.

"What exactly do you want?" he asked, his breath hot against my ear, anger and impatience burning in his eyes—like he was scolding an intern.

I covered my shame with a grin, slid closer, pretending it was all a game. "Mr. Donovan is so hard to see. Maybe I just missed you."

I traced his Adam’s apple, felt his pulse jump.

Michael shot me a look, lips pressed into a straight line. "What, is screwing with me fun for you? Is this some sick thrill?"

His words rumbled like thunder rolling over the Hudson.

Sensing trouble, I tried to back away. He yanked my wrist, grip unbreakable, leaving marks.

"Ryan, you just need to be taught a lesson."

His eyes pinned me. My heart hammered like a bird in a cage.

Damn. I’d pushed it too far this time.