Chapter 3

Sunlight, sharp and unforgiving, sliced through the gap in the curtains, hitting Gwendolyn directly in the eyes. She groaned, every muscle in her body screaming in protest. Her back ached, her hips felt bruised, and her head was pounding with the dull, rhythmic throb of a world-class hangover.

She rolled over, the silk sheets whispering against her bare skin. The other side of the massive bed was empty. A faint sound of running water came from an adjoining bathroom.

Flashes of the night before assaulted her. His hands. His mouth. The raw, unrestrained power. A hot blush crept up her neck, a mortifying mix of shame and a flicker of something else she refused to name.

Her dirty, rain-stained dress was gone. In its place, folded neatly on the bedside table, was a crisp white men's dress shirt. She grabbed it, the fine cotton cool against her heated skin. It smelled of him-that clean, sharp scent of cedar. She slipped it on, the hem falling to her mid-thigh, a ridiculously intimate uniform.

She had to get out of there.

To salvage what was left of her pride, she needed to pretend this was just a transaction, that she was the one in control. Rummaging through her canvas bag, she found a crumpled hotel notepad and a pen.

On a clean sheet, she scrawled: Good technique. Five-star review.

Then, she pulled out the last fifty-dollar bill she had to her name and tucked it under the note on the nightstand. A tip. The thought was so absurd it was almost funny.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the suite's imposing double doors, Jordi and Colette stood in the hallway. Jordi nervously adjusted the collar of his borrowed suit, while Colette clutched a leather-bound business proposal, her expression a mixture of impatience and anxiety. They were there to beg for an investment from the legendary head of the Pacheco family.

A man in a severe gray suit-Damian's chief of staff-approached them.

"Mr. Sterling," Colette said, her voice sickeningly sweet. "Is my father available? Just for five minutes."

The man's face remained a mask of cold professionalism. "Mr. Pacheco is not seeing anyone," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Especially not extended family."

The jab hit its mark. Colette's smile faltered.

Inside the suite, the bathroom door opened. Damian emerged, a white towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water clinging to the hard planes of his chest. His hair was damp, slicked back from his forehead.

He saw the note on the nightstand first, then the pathetic, wrinkled fifty-dollar bill tucked beneath it. He stopped. A strange sound escaped his throat-a low, deep rumble of a laugh he seemed to be trying to suppress.

Gwendolyn, who was frantically searching for her shoes by the entryway, froze at the sound.

He crossed the room in a few long strides, coming to a stop directly behind her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, and she didn't dare turn around.

"My fiancé's proposal is brilliant," Colette's shrill voice pierced through the thick door. "It would be a huge mistake for him to miss it!"

Gwendolyn's blood ran cold. Colette? Here? Her mind raced, connecting the dots in a panicked, illogical frenzy. Was Colette here to see him? Was this man her paid companion? Was she about to be caught?

She had to run.

As if sensing her panic, Damian ignored the commotion outside. He bent down and opened a shoe closet she hadn't even noticed. He pulled out a pair of brand-new, simple but elegant flat shoes, decorated with a subtle sprinkle of crystals.

Then, the man who made Wall Street tremble knelt before her.

He took her foot in his large, warm hand and gently slid the shoe on. Gwendolyn stared down at the top of his dark, damp head, her brain completely short-circuiting. This wasn't happening.

He stood, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. He gestured towards a discreet door she hadn't seen before. "Service elevator," he said, his voice soft.

She didn't need to be told twice. Grabbing her bag, she bolted for the door, pulling it open and scrambling inside. As the doors slid shut, she saw him standing there, watching her, a ghost of that dangerous, knowing smile on his lips.

The moment she was gone, the warmth vanished from his face. It was replaced by a look of pure, chilling indifference.

He strode to the main doors and wrenched them open.

Jordi and Colette snapped to attention, their faces a mixture of shock and terror at his sudden appearance.

Damian's cold eyes landed on Jordi, dismissing him in an instant as if he were something unpleasant he'd scraped off his shoe.

"Get them out of my hotel," he said to his assistant, his voice lethally quiet.

The door slammed shut, the sound echoing down the hall like a judge's gavel.