Chapter 1 The Morning After

The first thing Camille Hart noticed was the silence.

Not the kind of silence that soothed, but the kind that screamed. The kind that made her heartbeat sound louder than it should. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, and unfamiliar light poured in through floor-to-ceiling windows, flooding the room with cold, sterile morning.

Her throat felt dry. Her limbs heavy.

Her mind-blank.

The king-sized bed beneath her was impossibly soft. The silk sheets, smooth against her bare skin, clung to her like shame. Slowly, dread settled in her stomach like a stone.

She wasn't home.

This wasn't her bed.

And she wasn't alone last night.

She sat up in a panic, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her head pounded violently at the motion. The expensive suite came into view-marble floors, a balcony overlooking the skyline, a suit jacket draped over a velvet armchair. The vague scent of cologne still lingered in the air-sharp, masculine, rich.

Her eyes darted around. No one else was in the room.

But she had definitely not been alone.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember.

The gala.

Three glasses of wine.

A man.

A man with piercing eyes, a commanding presence, and a voice like silk over steel.

God.

Her stomach twisted. The details were blurry, but her instincts screamed that she had made a mistake-a big one.

She slid out of bed, pulling the sheet around her body, and found her black dress crumpled on the armchair. Her shoes were near the door. She dressed in silence, moving on autopilot. Her fingers trembled as she zipped herself up.

Then she saw it.

On the nightstand.

A credit card.

Her blood froze.

She stepped closer. The card was placed perfectly-like a business transaction completed.

Christian Ford.

Her fingers curled into a fist around the sheet.

She had heard the name before. Everyone had.

He wasn't just a CEO-he was the CEO. Ford International. Multi-billion dollar empire. Known for making companies rise and people disappear with a signature.

Cold. Calculated. Cruel.

And now... apparently the man she'd spent the night with.

Camille's pulse pounded in her ears. Her thoughts spiraled, clawing through memories, trying to make sense of everything.

Did he think she was-

No. No, no, no.

She wasn't that kind of woman.

She grabbed the card, her jaw tightening. She would keep it, not for the money-but to remember. To remember the moment her self-respect cracked. To remind herself never to fall that low again.

And to one day return it to his smug face.

Three Days Later

She almost turned around when she saw the name "Ford International" Skyscraper of steel and glass. Home to sharks in suits.

And-unfortunately-the place that had just offered her a final-round interview.

Camille stood outside the revolving doors, palms sweating, résumé folder clutched tightly in her hand.

She had applied months ago. Before the gala. Before the night that twisted her life into something unrecognizable. She hadn't connected the dots-too busy applying for dozens of jobs to keep the lights on.

But now, standing here, she knew.

Christian Ford.

The same man.

Her new potential boss.

She should've walked away. Should've turned, run, disappeared back into the crowd of invisible job seekers scraping by on broken dreams.

But she didn't.

Instead, Camille took a breath and stepped forward.

Because she had come too far. She couldn't afford to lose this opportunity-not over shame. Not over a man.

Not even him.

The receptionist barely looked up as she approached.

"Camille Hart?"

"Yes."

"Forty-fifth floor. Mr. Ford will see you now."

Her spine stiffened.

Mr. Ford.

She stepped into the elevator, and every second of the ride stretched like a lifetime. Her mind raced. Would he recognize her? Would he mention that night?

Or worse-would he pretend it never happened?

The elevator dinged. The doors opened.

She stepped into a sleek, open office with minimalist décor and a heavy sense of authority pressing down on every wall.

And there he was.

Behind a glass desk.

Tall. Impeccably dressed. Cold as winter.

Christian Ford.

He looked up at her.

And nothing changed.

No shock. No flicker of recognition. His gaze was sharp, unreadable. As if she were just another name on a long list of people he barely cared to remember.

Camille Hart?" he said, voice low and clipped.

She nodded, throat dry. "Yes, Mr. Ford."

He gestured to the seat in front of him.

She sat slowly, heart pounding in her chest.

"I reviewed your résumé. You're overqualified for a marketing assistant position."

Was that an insult or a compliment?

She straightened her shoulders. "I applied for what was available, sir."

A pause. His gaze was unreadable as he leaned back in his chair. "And you're aware this role reports directly to me."

God, he didn't remember. Or he was pretending.

Either way, it was humiliating.

"I understand."

More silence. He studied her like a chess piece. Slowly, he stood, moving around the desk until he was leaning against it-closer. Towering.

"There's something familiar about you," he said suddenly, eyes narrowing.

Her stomach dropped.

"I-" she began, but the words stuck.

Christian tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his gaze. Then, as if dismissing it, he said flatly, "No matter. HR will contact you."

Just like that.

Dismissed.

She stood, rage bubbling beneath her skin. Her fingers tightened around the folder.

She wanted to scream.

To throw the credit card at his chest.

To say, "You used me, and forgot me like trash."

But she didn't.

She simply turned to the door. And just before leaving, she glanced back and said quietly:

"I think we've met before, Mr. Ford. You just weren't paying attention."

Then she walked out.

And his expression-cold, calculated-finally cracked.

Just a little.