Chapter 7

The morning sun sliced through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains. It hit Abigail directly in the eyes like a laser beam.

She groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. Her head pounded with a vicious hangover. Every single muscle in her body ached with a deep, bruised soreness.

She slowly opened her eyes.

She stared at the unfamiliar, vaulted ceiling. The crystal chandelier above her was blinding.

Memory hit her like a freight train.

The dark room. The tearing of her dress. The terrifying strength of the man.

And then... the kiss on her scar. The miraculous disappearance of her pain.

She gasped and shot upright in the bed.

The silk sheets pooled at her waist. She looked down and saw the dark, red bruises blooming across her collarbones and chest.

She yanked the blanket up to her chin, her heart hammering against her ribs.

She whipped her head to the side.

The other side of the massive bed was empty. The sheets were tangled, but the man was gone.

The faint, lingering scent of cedar and sex hung heavy in the air.

Abigail scanned the room.

On the mahogany nightstand next to her, three items were perfectly arranged.

A glass of ice water. A single white Plan B pill. And a folded piece of heavy cardstock.

Abigail's stomach plummeted.

She reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the card.

The handwriting was sharp, aggressive, and written in black fountain pen ink.

Plan B. My assistant will arrive in exactly one hour to finalize your departure and compensation.

A hot, sickening wave of humiliation washed over her.

The man who had kissed her scar with such reverence last night was just another cold, calculating bastard in the daylight. He was treating her like a problem to be erased.

She let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

She popped the pill out of the foil, tossed it into her mouth, and downed the entire glass of water.

She threw the covers off and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her knees buckled the moment her feet hit the floor. She had to grab the nightstand to keep from collapsing.

She limped into the massive marble bathroom. She turned the shower on scalding hot and stood under the spray, scrubbing her skin until it was raw and red.

When she walked back into the bedroom, she noticed something she had missed.

Draped perfectly over the velvet armchair was a luxurious, loose-fitting cashmere wrap dress from the hotel's high-end boutique. Next to it was a set of basic, stretch-fit silk undergarments.

They weren't her exact tailored measurements, but they were a calculated, safe guess by a highly efficient assistant who likely cross-referenced her public photos.

A shiver of absolute disgust ran down her spine. The efficiency of it was horrifying.

She ignored the expensive clothes. She walked over to the floor and picked up her torn black gown.

The zipper was completely destroyed. She pulled the dress on and used the thick belt from the hotel bathrobe to tie it tightly around her waist.

She walked out into the living room.

The sofa where she had been attacked last night was perfectly clean.

Her clutch was sitting on the center of the glass coffee table.

Next to her bag was a check.

Abigail walked over and picked it up.

It was made out to 'Cash'. The amount was one million dollars.

She looked at the signature line.

J. Hodges.

The air left Abigail's lungs.

Josephus Hodges. The apex predator of Wall Street. The CEO of T.S. Group.

She had slept with the most ruthless billionaire in the country.

The humiliation instantly boiled over into pure, blinding rage. He thought he could buy her silence. He thought she was a high-end escort.

She grabbed a pen from her bag.

She flipped the million-dollar check over. In large, angry letters, she wrote:

Your technique is garbage. You're only worth a hundred bucks.

She opened her wallet, pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and slammed it down on top of the check.

She grabbed her bag, slipped her feet into her ruined heels, and marched toward the door.

She threw the door open.

A man in a sharp suit-Alex Stone, the executive assistant-was standing in the hallway, holding a tray of coffee.

Alex's jaw dropped as Abigail stormed past him, her head held high, looking like a war-torn queen.

She stepped into the elevator and hit the lobby button.