Chapter 3 The Price of Silence

Blair Thompson didn't notice the quilt sliding off her shoulder until the air chilled her bare skin-and by then, it was too late. Graham Prescott's eyes, usually so unreadable, flickered with something like alarm. His gaze landed on the bruises scattered along her petite shoulders, blooming like violets in the snow.

The expression on his face shifted almost imperceptibly: discomfort, maybe even guilt.

For a second, Blair could've sworn he looked... sorry.

Then she noticed the exposure and panicked, yanking the comforter up with one hand and shielding herself like a scalded cat. Her cheeks flamed.

"What the hell are you looking at?" she snapped. "You want your eyes dug out and used as decorative lightbulbs on my boots?"

Graham coughed, awkward and uncharacteristically flustered. "Relax. It's not like I haven't already-" He caught himself before finishing the sentence and turned away sharply. "Forget it."

He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair, sliding it over his shoulders with mechanical precision.

Blair didn't waste the opportunity. She scooped up her scattered clothes from the carpet and ducked under the quilt, rustling as she wrestled her limbs into jeans and a wrinkled blouse. When she finally stood, fully dressed but sore in all the worst ways, she nearly collapsed.

She bit back a wince as pain shot through her legs. *Damn him. Couldn't he tell it was my first time? What was he, some sort of animal?*

She glared at his back, lean and muscular beneath his tailored shirt, and-for a split second-her anger faltered. *Okay... he was hot. But that doesn't make any of this okay.*

He turned around. Their eyes met.

For the second time that morning, she hated herself for blushing.

*Get it together, Blair.*

She took a steadying breath and reached for the card still lying on the nightstand. If they were going to be square, then so be it. She'd take the money. No one owed anyone anything. The night had been-*what it was.* But she wasn't about to walk away broke and humiliated.

Even if the taste she'd given him had been unforgettable-and it probably had-he was too old, too powerful, and too dangerous to be around. She needed to disappear from his orbit.

Graham began to speak. "Keep the card safe. Later-"

"I don't need your instructions," she cut in, sharp and fast. "If anyone's walking away first, it's me. I know crying and screaming won't rewind time, and I'm not about to play the victim. What happened last night?"

She squared her shoulders, eyes flashing.

"I'll chalk it up to getting bitten by a dog. So don't expect me to act grateful or broken. Once I leave this room, we're strangers. I won't recognize you. Don't recognize me."

Her tone was ice. Her eyes were fire.

Only the flush on her cheeks and the redness in her eyes betrayed the storm behind her brave facade.

Graham blinked, caught off guard. "I was just going to say we should keep our distance."

"Well, congrats," she snapped, snatching the card and shoving it into her purse. "Great minds think alike."

She wasn't going to be one of those women who rejected hush money for pride. *Dignity doesn't pay rent.*

But she wasn't about to let him feel superior, either.

An idea struck her like lightning.

She pulled a handful of coins from her pocket-quarters, dimes, pennies, and even a dusty subway token-and stomped across the room. Graham watched in disbelief as she opened his collar, leaned forward, and shoved the handful of loose change into his breast pocket.

He stepped back, stunned.

"There," she said, dusting off her hands. "That's what your performance last night was worth. A few coins and maybe a soda machine. Don't flatter yourself."

Graham looked down at the jingling mess in his pocket. He exhaled slowly through his nose, lips twitching in something between amusement and exasperation.

"I'll make sure to declare it on my taxes."

"Do that," she said sweetly. "And remember: if you so much as whisper this to anyone, I'll tell the world you're a broke gigolo who couldn't afford a decent hotel room without a sugar mama."

Then she bolted.

She didn't look back.

By the time she reached the café two blocks down, her adrenaline was gone and her feet were screaming in protest. She locked herself in the bathroom stall, sat on the closed toilet seat, and tried to breathe.

She was broke.

Not figuratively-literally.

All she had was that stupid card.

"No money for the bus, no change for coffee," she muttered. "At this point I'd trade my soul for a croissant."

She wiped her forehead. She was sweating. Her phone was at one percent.

*Fantastic.*

Then, as if the universe hadn't humiliated her enough, she heard a voice in the distance. Familiar. Grating.

"Blair?"

She froze.

Her father.

She opened the stall door slowly. In the reflection of the grimy mirror, she saw him-David Thompson. Unshaven. Slightly bloated. Wearing the same shirt he'd been photographed in two Christmases ago.

"Blair, sweetheart! I thought that was you."

Her shoulders slumped. "Dad."

"Don't look so sour," he said, reaching out as though they were close. "How've you been, huh? Got that promotion yet? I know they pay you interns at the end of the month. You've got some pocket change now, right?"

"I'm still unpaid," she said flatly. "I'm working for experience."

David's grin twitched, but he held it in place. "Right, right. Well, listen. I haven't eaten in two days. Think you could spot your old man a twenty? Just for lunch. I'll pay you back next week."

Blair hesitated.

He didn't look like he was starving.

He looked like he'd had three too many beers.

Her heart ached. This wasn't the man she remembered. This wasn't the father who used to take her to the park and pretend he was a pirate captain. Somewhere between the gambling, the lies, and the divorce, he'd turned into someone else entirely.

"I really don't have any cash, Dad."

He frowned, then perked up. "But your stepdad's loaded, isn't he? You must get an allowance, right?"

"No," she said firmly. "I work to cover my own stuff. I'm not some spoiled rich girl."

His grip on her arm tightened. "Blair, I'm desperate."

"I can't."

He looked like he might cry. "Then ask your mother. Just a little. For me."

"Don't do this."

"Please."

She sighed. Then reached for her purse, pulled out the black card, and held it up.

"I'll take some out," she said. "But this is it."

The second his eyes landed on the card, they changed.

He snatched it from her fingers.

"Hey!" she shouted. "What are you-"

"I'll hold onto it," he said, voice trembling with excitement. "Just to keep it safe. I'll withdraw some cash and give it right back."

"Dad, don't-!"

But he was already gone.

She chased him outside, but he vanished into a cab, waving the card like it was a winning lottery ticket.

Blair stood frozen on the sidewalk.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to cry.

*That card was her only safety net.*

And now it was gone.

*Taken by the man who was supposed to protect her.*

She had no choice. She turned and walked toward the house she never felt at home in.

The Walker estate.

Her mother's new family. Big house. Perfect lawn. Cold atmosphere.

Her stepfather, William Walker, had two children from his first marriage-Simon, who barely acknowledged her, and Claire, who was away studying in Paris most of the year.

Her mother, Veronica, tried too hard to make everyone happy.

Which meant she forgot to take care of Blair.

Blair stood outside the gate and stared up at the looming building.

She was so tired.

So angry.

So **done**.

But before she could reach the front door, it opened-and there stood Simon.

Handsome, smug, ice-blue eyes that always made her uneasy.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Well, well," he said, leaning against the doorframe. "If it isn't the runaway princess."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Too bad. Because your little scandal's already hit the internet."

Blair's blood ran cold.

"What?"

He smirked, pulling out his phone.

"Mayor's Night Visitor Identified: Social Media Intern Linked to Prescott Fiasco"**

The article had her name.

Her face.

Her work history.

Simon tilted his head. "You really screwed up this time, Blair."

She stared at the screen in horror.

"Did... did Mom see this?"

"Oh, she saw it."

"And?"

"She's upstairs," he said, the smirk fading. "Crying. Stepdad's yelling at her. Says you've humiliated the whole family."

The front door slammed shut behind her.

Blair stood on the doorstep, the echo still ringing in her ears.

She clenched her fists.

She had no card.

No money.

No support.

And now, the whole world knew.

But that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part?

Her phone buzzed again.

An unknown number.

She picked it up.

"Miss Thompson," said the voice on the line. "This is Graham Prescott. We have a problem."

She didn't say a word.

"There's a video," he said.

"A *what*?"

"A recording. From the hotel. Someone leaked footage of you entering my suite. It's already in the hands of someone who wants to use it."

Blair's mouth went dry. "Use it how?"

He didn't answer right away.

Then, coldly: "Blackmail."