Chapter 2 The Price of a Ruined Night

Consciousness returned like shattered glass. My skull pounded with a vicious, blinding agony. I opened my eyes to unfamiliar shadows and the heavy, expensive scent of cedar. I was tangled in silk sheets. My cocktail dress lay in a torn, crumpled heap on the hardwood floor.

The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed into the dark suite.

He walked out. He wore a perfectly tailored pair of charcoal trousers, his white dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His dark hair was damp. He looked at me, and his steel-grey eyes held zero warmth. They were absolute ice.

"You are awake," he stated. His voice was a flat, emotionless blade. "Good. You can leave."

I pulled the silk sheet tightly against my bare chest. Panic seized my throat. The memories of last night flashed in disjointed nightmares, Vanessa's cruel smile, the violent spin of the room, falling into this stranger's arms, and the heat of his skin against mine as the darkness consumed me.

"I did not." My voice came out as a broken rasp. "What happened?"

"Do not play the victim. You begged me to let you stay."

He walked over to a heavy mahogany desk and picked up a silver money clip. He tossed a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills onto the nightstand.

"I do not know if Victoria sent you, or if Marcus thought this was a funny joke. But I make it a strict policy never to see the same woman twice. Take the money. Sign the non-disclosure agreement my lawyers will email you. Do not ever approach me again."

He thought I was a transaction. A corporate spy or a high-priced call girl.

Tears of absolute humiliation burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. My father raised a fighter, not a victim. I dragged myself out of his bed, wrapping my shaking body in my ruined dress. I ignored the cash on the nightstand.

"Keep your money," I whispered, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. "I did not come here for your wealth. I came here to survive. You are just as cruel as the people who put me in this room."

I did not wait for his response. I slammed the heavy suite door behind me, fleeing into the cold, unforgiving morning. I had survived the night, but my nightmare was only just beginning.

Six weeks later.

The heart monitor beeped in a slow, terrifying rhythm. I sat beside the hospital bed, holding my mother's frail, paper-thin hand.

"The stress is destroying her heart, Zara, "Doctor. Mitchell warned me in the sterile hallway twenty minutes ago. "If she sees another tabloid headline about your father's bankruptcy, she will not survive the next attack."

My family was completely destitute. The banks seized our penthouse. Preston's wealthy family publicly denounced us. I was currently living in a cramped, freezing apartment in the worst part of the city, surviving on instant noodles.

And yesterday, I took a test in a gas station bathroom. Two pink lines changed my destiny forever. I was pregnant. The father was the ruthless, anonymous billionaire from the hotel room.

"Zara," my mother whispered. Her eyes fluttered open. "You look so tired, my sweet girl."

"I am fine, Mother," I lied, forcing a smile. My stomach rolled with a violent wave of morning sickness.

"I am submitting my portfolio everywhere. Someone will hire me."

She squeezed my fingers. "Promise me you will fight. Do not let Vanessa and Preston win. You have a brilliant mind. Build your own empire."

"I promise," I vowed. A tear slipped down my cheek, hitting the crisp white hospital sheet.

I returned to my freezing apartment and opened my laptop. I had forty-seven rejection emails in my inbox. No prestigious architecture firm wanted to touch the disgraced daughter of Richard Knight. I was a pariah.

Ding.

A new email flashed across the screen.

Sender: Marcus Chen, Chief Operations Officer.

Company: Sterling Architecture.

Message: Miss Knight, your community centre design is exceptional. We do not care about the media circus surrounding your family, but talent, not what your family destroyed.

Interview. Monday. 9:00 AM."

My heart slammed against my ribs. Sterling Architecture wasn't just a design firm. It was a billion-dollar shark tank that chewed up the weak and spat them out. It was my only lifeline. I placed a protective hand over my flat stomach. I was going to fight for my child.