The Untouchable Billionaire's Only Healing Touch

The hallway of the Pierre-Saint Hotel smelled of old money and floor wax. She stood in front of Room 2206, her hand hovering over the brass handle. Her heart wasn't racing. It was a cold, heavy stone in her chest.

She checked her reflection in the darkened screen of her phone. The mascara was perfect. The dress was a weapon-red silk, backless, designed to make a man regret everything. She wasn't Isa Faulkner, the dutiful fiancée, anymore. She was the executioner.

She tapped the Instagram icon. Go Live.

Title: A Pre-wedding Surprise for Holden.

The viewer count ticked up. 10. 500. 2,000. People love a train wreck, especially when it involves the Faulkner name.

"I'm just so excited to see him," she whispered to the camera, forcing a tremor into her voice. "He said he had a late meeting."

She swiped the key card. The light turned green.

She pushed the door open.

The room was dim, but the scene on the bed was illuminated by the city lights filtering through the sheer curtains. Tangled limbs. The frantic rhythm of skin slapping against skin.

She didn't scream. She walked in, phone raised.

Holden's head snapped up. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated terror. The blonde woman beneath him shrieked, scrambling for the duvet, but the camera had already captured her face. A runway model. Isa recognized her. Her agency had booked her for a show last season, a transaction handled entirely through proxies.

"Holden?" Isa let her voice crack. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. "This... this is your meeting?"

The comments on the screen were a blur of shock and emojis. 50,000 viewers.

"Isa!" Holden scrambled off the bed, naked and pathetic. "Isa, stop! Turn it off! You're crazy!"

She stepped back, keeping the lens steady. She panned it slowly to the nightstand. A line of white powder. An empty bottle of scotch.

"I can't believe this," she sobbed, dry-eyed behind the hand she raised to her mouth.

Heavy footsteps thundered in the corridor. The TMZ photographers she'd tipped off twenty minutes ago. Right on schedule.

Holden heard the shutters clicking before he saw them. His face went gray. He didn't look at Isa. He ran for the bathroom, abandoning the model, abandoning his dignity.

She ended the stream.

The hallway erupted. Flashes blinded her. "Isa! Isa, look here! Did you know?"

She had underestimated the swarm. There were too many of them. She couldn't go back the way she came. She kicked off her Louboutins, grabbing them by the heels, and hiked up her red silk skirt.

She ran.

Not toward the lobby, but toward the service elevator. She bypassed it and hit the button for the private lift to the Penthouse. She pulled a thin, black card from her clutch. It wasn't a hotel key. It was an executive pass tied to one of Aeon Group's more discreet acquisitions-this very hotel. The public records showed a different owner, of course.

The light turned green. The doors slid open.

She collapsed against the mirrored wall as the elevator shot upward. Her chest heaved, not from sorrow, but from the adrenaline of the kill. She checked her other phone-the burner. Aeon Group stock was steady. Faulkner Group was already taking a hit.

Ding.

The Penthouse floor.

It was silent up here. Dead silent. The air was cooler, thinner.

She stepped out, her bare feet sinking into plush carpet. She needed a place to hide until the paparazzi cleared out. She knew the layout. She knew the security detail for the Penthouse was currently downstairs dealing with a "fire alarm" she'd triggered electronically ten minutes ago.

The double mahogany doors at the end of the hall were ajar. Just a crack.

She didn't hesitate. She slipped inside and threw the deadbolt.

Darkness swallowed her. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight. The room smelled of cedar, expensive scotch, and something else... something sharp and unsettling.

She pressed her back against the door, trying to control her breathing.

Hhhuh.

A sound. A low, ragged exhale from the center of the room.

She froze.

Her eyes adjusted to the gloom. There was a shape on the massive sectional sofa. A man. He was curled in on himself, shivering violently.

She took a step forward, intending to sneak toward the side exit.

Her toe caught the edge of a rug. She pitched forward.

She didn't hit the floor. She landed on something hard and burning hot.

She landed on him.

Her hands splayed out, pressing against a chest that felt like a furnace. The shirt was soaked through with sweat.

She braced herself to be shoved. To be hit.

But the man didn't strike her. A hand shot out, gripping her wrist. His fingers were searing hot, his grip bruising.

"Alvina?" he rasped, his voice like gravel grinding together.

He pulled her down. His other arm locked around her waist, trapping her against him. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, as if she were the only oxygen left in the room.

She should have fought. She should have kneed him in the groin. But she was paralyzed by the sheer heat radiating off him.

And then she saw his eyes open. Even in the dark, they were piercing. Ice blue, rimmed with red, dilated and wild.

Gerhardt Phillips.

The man who allegedly broke a waiter's arm for spilling water on his suit. The man with the phobia so severe he wore gloves in July.

He wasn't pushing her away. He was holding onto her like a drowning man clutching driftwood.

"Who sent you?" he whispered against her skin.

She couldn't speak. Her heart hammered against his ribs.

He didn't wait for an answer. His grip tightened, and the tension in his body-the violent shivering-suddenly stopped. As if her presence had flipped a switch.

"Don't move," he commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous purr. "Don't you dare move."