Chapter 3 3

Sunlight hit Eric's eyelids like a physical blow. He groaned, shielding his face with his forearm. His head felt like it was packed with cotton, a lingering side effect of whatever Vance had slipped into his drink. But beneath the headache, there was a strange, unfamiliar sensation in his body. A sense of... satisfaction.

Memories flickered. Darkness. Heat. Silk skin. A scent of vanilla and rain. A woman who moved with a wild, desperate energy that matched his own.

He turned over, his hand reaching out instinctively. "Hey."

His fingers brushed against skin.

Eric forced his eyes open.

Janine Mcbride was lying next to him, propped up on one elbow. She was wearing one of his dress shirts, unbuttoned to reveal her cleavage. She smiled, a practiced, camera-ready expression. "Good morning, darling."

Eric froze. He pulled his hand back as if he had touched a hot stove.

He sat up abruptly, the sheet pooling at his waist. He looked at Janine, his eyes narrowing. Something was wrong. The math didn't add up. The woman in his memories-hazy as they were-had felt... smaller. Firmer. And she hadn't smelled like an explosion of Chanel No. 5.

"Janine," he said, his voice rough with sleep and suspicion. "What are you doing here?"

Janine pouted playfully, tracing a finger down his arm. "Don't be like that, Eric. After last night? You were... incredible."

Eric stared at her. He tried to reconcile the visceral memory of the night with the woman in front of him. It felt like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. He didn't remember inviting her. He didn't remember this perfume. But the drugs had left his memory fragmented, unreliable.

Then, his eyes caught the glint of green at her throat.

"That necklace," he said.

Janine's hand flew to the emerald locket. "Oh, this? It fell off while we were... you know. I found it on the floor this morning."

Eric stared at the stone. It was the only concrete evidence that the night had actually happened. He knew he hadn't given it to her. He had never seen that necklace before in his life. But if she had it, she must have been the one in the room. Unless... unless she took it from someone else? Or unless he was more out of his mind than he realized.

"Get out," he said. It wasn't a shout. It was a cold, flat command.

Janine flinched. "Eric?"

"I need to shower. Gavin will call you a car." He stood up, not bothering to cover himself, and walked toward the bathroom. He needed to wash the smell of her perfume off his skin. He needed to think.

Across the bridge, in Brooklyn, Aislinn was scrubbing her skin raw. She stood under the scalding spray of the shower, trying to erase the phantom sensation of Eric's hands on her waist.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

She turned off the water and wrapped herself in a towel. She walked into the living room, where Harper was nursing a hangover on the couch with a bag of frozen peas on her head.

"You alive?" Harper groaned. "You disappeared. I thought you got kidnapped."

"I... fell asleep in a lounge," Aislinn lied. The lie tasted like ash.

She reached up to touch her neck, a nervous habit. Her fingers met bare skin.

Aislinn froze. Her hands frantically patted her collarbone, then her chest. She ran back to the bedroom, tearing through the pile of clothes she had discarded.

"No, no, no..."

"What did you lose?" Harper asked from the doorway.

"My mother's locket," Aislinn whispered, her face draining of color. "The emerald one."

"The one with the secret compartment?" Harper's eyes widened. "Aislinn, that thing is worth more than my life. Where did you have it last?"

"The hotel," Aislinn said, sinking onto the bed. "It must have fallen off in the... in the room."

"We have to go back. Call the lost and found."

"I can't," Aislinn said sharply. "I can never go back there."

If Eric found the necklace, he might just think a guest left it. But inside that locket, hidden behind the photo of her mother, was a tiny, engraved stamp: Rose. It was her maker's mark. The same mark on every design blueprint she had ever sold. If Eric opened it...

She grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, needing noise to drown out her panic.

Breaking News.

The screen showed paparazzi footage of Janine Mcbride exiting the Koch building. She was wearing sunglasses and a smug smile. And around her neck, gleaming in the camera flash, was the emerald locket.

Aislinn gasped. "That bitch."

Harper squinted at the screen. "Is that... did Janine Mcbride steal your necklace?"

"She didn't steal it," Aislinn realized with a sinking feeling. "She found it. In Eric's room."

"Wait," Harper looked at her slowly. "Why was your necklace in Eric's room?"

Aislinn buried her face in her hands. "Don't ask."

Back at the penthouse, Eric walked out of the bathroom, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit. Gavin was waiting, holding a tablet.

"Status," Eric said, fastening his cufflinks.

"Ms. Mcbride has left the building. The press is already running stories about a reconciliation." Gavin paused. "Sir, about last night. You asked me to check the security footage for the penthouse floor."

"And?"

"The feed from 2:00 AM to 6:00 AM is corrupt. It appears someone tampered with the server."

Eric's jaw tightened. Vance. The slimeball must have wiped the tapes to cover up the drugging. But in doing so, he had erased the only way to verify who had actually walked through that door.

"Janine had the necklace," Eric muttered, more to himself than Gavin. "It has to be her." But the memory of the scent-rain and vanilla-wouldn't leave him. Janine smelled like a department store. The woman in the dark smelled like... freedom.

"Sir, there is one more thing," Gavin said, swiping on the tablet. "The acquisition of S.W. Studios is finalized. We own the rights to the 'Rose' brand now. However, the ownership structure is... complex. The seller is a trust represented by Declan. The actual creator, this 'Rose,' remains hidden behind layers of NDA."

"Fine," Eric said, grabbing his jacket. "Set it up. I want to meet this Rose. If she's half as talented as her portfolio suggests, she might be the only interesting thing to happen to me this week."

Aislinn's phone rang. It was Declan.

"We have a problem," Declan's voice was shaking. "The new owners are here. They want a meeting. Now."

"I can't come in, Declan. I'm sick."

"You have to," Declan hissed. "It's Eric Koch personally. He's asking for Rose. If we don't produce someone, he's going to sue us for breach of contract before the ink is dry."

Aislinn looked at the TV, where Janine was still flashing her necklace. Then she looked at the mirror. She had set up S.W. Studios as a front. Declan was the face; she was the ghost. To maintain control, she had "hired" herself as a low-level assistant a month ago, a position that allowed her to be in the room without being seen. It was the perfect camouflage.

"Fine," she said, her voice turning cold. "I'll be there. But Rose isn't coming. Aislinn is."