"No way," Avery says, pushing Andrew's hand off her cheek.

Andrew's mouth twitched, and his eyes twinkle, and Avery turns back to her room. Heavy footsteps make her turn around again. A plump maid walks down the hallway, carrying a black marker in her hands. Avery grabs the maid and takes the marker out of her hands, uncaps it, and then lunges forward.

Caitan tries to dodge, but she's too slow. Avery makes a small line between Caitan's lip and nose. She steps away and smiles at her work—from a distance, and it looks like Caitan has a dark mustache.

"How dare you," Caitan shrieks. "Give me that marker."

Avery jumps back and tucks the marker into her pocket. Caitan rubs at her upper lip, but the ink has already stained the skin. Angry tears fill her eyes, and she raises her hand to slap Avery. Andrew clears his throat, and Caitan's hand falls to her side, but her fingers curl into a fist.

"Why are you so upset?" Avery asks. "You said the ink comes off with urine and semen, and you clearly took it off before. Why don't you show me how to do it now?"

"I will," Caitan says. "But you should give me a pen first."

"Hmm," Avery says, pretending to think. "How about I give you the pen after you wash it off?"

"Never mind," Caitan says, slamming the door to her room.

Avery turns to Andrew and says, "Anyway, I was on my way to go visit Rebecca in the hospital. Do you want to come with me?"

Andrew shakes his head, "You know I don't like hospitals."

"Okay then," she says. "I'll see you when I get back."

She rushes into her room and slathers the thickest concealer she can find onto her face. The heavy cream makes the turtles paler, but they still show through. She sighs and puts on a large black hat and a pair of oversized sunglasses. She sends Evan a text explaining she'll be late, and then she gets in the car and drives to the hospital. As she drives, she notices several black Bugattis in her rearview mirror—it seems Andrew's men are following her.

She pulls into the hospital parking garage and sees the Bugattis pull to the side of the street. She sighs, locks her car, and takes the elevator up to the hospital. A pretty, short-haired woman in a white lab coat greets her in the hospital lobby. She passes Avery a brown paper bag and smiles.

"This is what you wanted," she says.

"Thanks, Linda, I mean Dr. Morrison," Avery says. "I knew I could count on you."

"It's no problem," Linda says. "Anything for a friend of Charles."

Avery sighs and asks, "And how is he?"

"He's the same," Linda says. "He needs his heart back. I tried to do what I could for him, but I was just his assistant. There was so much for me to learn, but I'm afraid I may never get the chance now."

Avery nods and says, "I hate to do this, but can I ask for another favor?"

"Of course," Linda says.

"I lost a chess game, and someone drew all over my face with this marker," Avery says, reaching into her purse. "Would you be able to test it and tell me what's in it? I'm sure it's harmless, but I can't help but worry about the baby anyway."

"I'll need ten minutes," Linda says. "If you wait in the lobby, I'll run it up to the lab."

Avery nods and settles into a leather-backed chair. She taps her foot and checks her phone. Evan has opened her message, but he hasn't responded. She hopes that means he won't leak the recording again.

Exactly ten minutes later, Linda steps out of the elevator. Her forehead is wrinkled, and she carries a thick yellow folder filled with papers.

"What is it?" Avery asks.

"Well, I'm glad you brought this in," Linda says. "The ink contains a harmful chemical component. As far as I can tell, it's designed to release slowly, but if you don't get it off your skin, it could be dangerous for the pregnancy."

"My God," Avery says. "Is there any way to get it off?"

"Thankfully there is," Linda says, shaking a bottle of liquid. "Apply this to your face, and it will eat away at the ink. If the ink has been on your skin for a short time, it'll only take a few minutes to work. But if you've had the ink on your face for over an hour, it might be a few hours before the ink vanishes."

"A few hours?" Avery asks. "Is there a faster option."

"I'm afraid not," Linda says. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Actually, there is," Avery says. "I'm afraid my fiance's bodyguards are following me. Is there any way I could borrow your car for a few hours? They won't recognize it."

"Sure," Linda says, pulling her keys out of her pocket.

Evan crosses his legs and leans his head against his hand. Robert's voice drones on and on in the background, and it's starting to give him a headache.

"So based on all our research, there are one hundred and ten men who have the exact same hobbies and interests as Charles Meyer," Robert says. "When we factor in daily habits, only eighty-nine men share those. It gets even narrower when we look at people whose hobbies and interests have changed since they had their transplants."

"How many?" Evan asks.

"Thirty-seven," Robert answers.

"That's a lot," Evan says.

"It is," Robert agrees. "We tracked down all of those men and showed them various photos. Each man had to pick the woman he found most attractive, and we included actresses, models, porn stars, and Avery. Unfortunately, each man chose Avery."

"Well, that's not saying much," Evan mutters. "She's obviously the most beautiful woman alive. Did you try anything else?"

Robert sighs and says, "Yes. We asked the men about their reason for choosing the picture of Avery, and twenty-one said that she looked familiar. They couldn't say how they knew her, but they swore they'd met her before."

Evan groans and rubs his temple. The results are depressing—he was hoping there'd only been one or two men left. But instead, there are twenty-one. There's no way Andrew really has Charles' heart, he thinks. It has to be one of these twenty-one men, but how will we ever figure out which it is.

"I need a drink," he says.

Robert rushes across the room and fills a tumbler with dark brown whiskey. Evan takes it and swallows it a single, burning gulp. He gestures for another, and Robert refills the glass. Evan swirls it under his nose and inhales the rich, smoky smell.

"So all of these men had heart transplants around the same time Andrew had his?" Evan asks.

"Of course," Robert answers. "That was the first thing we looked at. Once we found those men, we narrowed them down based on preferences, habits, and memories, as you suggested. If it's true that some of these things are affected by the heart, it has to be one of those twenty-two men."

"Twenty-two?" Evan asks.

"Well, the twenty-one men we interviewed plus Andrew," Robert says.

Evan tightens his grip on the cup, and the glass squeaks in his hand. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and forces himself to loosen his grip before the cup shatters. I don't care what Andrew says, he thinks. There's no way he actually has Charles' heart. He's just saying that to manipulate Avery.

"Of course we're going to continue investigating these twenty-one men," Robert says. "But we should also consider the possibility that Andrew really has the heart."

"Get out," Evan shouts.

Avery knocks on the door of the presidential suite, but no one answers. She checks the number on the door and then knocks again. It swings open, and strong arms pull her into the room. She gasps and looks up to see Evan wrapped in a robe.

His hair is wet, and water drips onto his shoulders and trickles down his chest. The lightly tanned skin glistens over his strong muscles, and she fights the sudden urge to lick the water droplets from his warm skin. He pushes his hair back and smirks at her.

"Do you know what you look like, all hidden under that giant hat?" he asks.

"Like a secret lover," she answers.

"You sure do," he says with a laugh.

"Listen, you're just as guilty as I am," she says. "What kind of man asks a woman to come to his hotel room when he already has a girlfriend?"

"Hmm, don't you find it exciting?" Evan asks.

"Not at all," she says.

Evan shrugs and walks into the suite. He bends over at the coffee table, giving her a view of his powerful back. She bites her lip and closes her eyes. I can't let him seduce me, she thinks. I'm here to negotiate the recording, nothing else.

He takes a long sip of whiskey and waves his hand, inviting her to join him. She squares her shoulders and marches into the suite, noticing that the curtains are drawn, and the room is dark and gloomy. She glances at the glass in his hands and purses her lips with disapproval.

"Did you invite me here to watch you drink yourself stupid?" she asks. "You seem to have a newfound taste for hard liquor."

Evan's eyes flicker with uncertainty, and he starts to set the glass down. Then he seems to think better of it, taking a slow, deliberate sip. She rolls her eyes.

"Listen, Evan, I was drugged the other night, and I acted out in a really irresponsible way," she says. "If you want me to take responsibility, I'm sorry. I refuse to do it. I won't admit guilt when I was very, obviously drugged. All I'll say is that I'm sorry things happened the way they did. Now can you please delete the recording?"

A small smile plays around his mouth, "Finished?"

"Yes, that's what I came to say," she says.

"Great," he says. "Now, we can have lunch."

He walks toward the suite's dining room, leaving her no choice but to follow. She trots after him, wondering what kind of game he's playing at. When she gets to the dining room, a symphony of smells overwhelms her. The table is covered in food, and the fragrant steam wafts into the air. She sees broccoli salad with almonds, shrimp dip, fish rolls, and crabcakes—all of her favorite foods.