Fiona moved with the silence of a ghost.
The shame and the searing memory of betrayal were a toxic cocktail in her gut. She slid out of the bed, her muscles protesting. Her dress lay in a heap on the floor. She scooped it up, along with her heels and the small clutch she'd somehow managed to hang onto.
Her only thought was to escape. To vanish from this room, from this man, before he could say a word.
She was almost at the door, her hand reaching for the handle, when his voice cut through the silence. It was low and cold, like stones grinding together.
"Are you just going to leave like that, Ms. Donaldson?"
Fiona froze, her back to him. A shiver, completely unrelated to the room's temperature, traced its way down her spine. She took a breath, pulling a mask of icy composure over her face before turning to face him.
"Mr. Blake," she said, her voice surprisingly steady. "I think it's clear we have nothing to discuss."
He rose from the sofa he'd moved to. He was taller than she'd realized, his presence dominating the cavernous suite. He walked toward her, not quickly, but with an unhurried, predatory grace that made her instinctively take a step back.
He stopped a foot in front of her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. The air crackled with a tension that was entirely different from the night before.
"You break into my room, use me, and then declare there's nothing to discuss?" His voice was laced with a dangerous sort of amusement. "I believe you owe me. You need to take responsibility."
A bitter, incredulous laugh escaped her lips. "Responsibility? It was a two-way street, Mr. Blake. And if we're assigning blame, I was the one who was drugged and running for my life."
His expression didn't change, but his eyes narrowed slightly. He was assessing her.
Fine. He wanted proof? She would give him proof.
She set her clutch on a nearby console table and pulled out a wafer-thin tablet. It was a custom piece of tech, matte black and unmarked. Ewart watched her, a flicker of curiosity in his otherwise impassive gaze. He didn't try to stop her.
Fiona's fingers flew across the screen. Lines of code, elegant and lethal, streamed across the display. The hotel's network security was impressive-multiple layers of firewalls, encrypted access points. It was a challenge, but for her, it was like picking a simple lock.
A minute later, she was in. She bypassed the local server and went straight for the central security hub of the Apex Grand Hotel.
In Ewart's pocket, his personal phone buzzed with a frantic, high-priority security alert from his head of IT. He ignored it, his eyes fixed on her.
Fiona located the footage from the 25th floor from the previous night. She found the right camera angle, the one just down the hall from her suite. The video was crystal clear. It showed Chip and Bette, their faces twisted with ugly determination, dragging a barely conscious woman-her-down the corridor.
She turned the tablet toward Ewart, her voice as cold and hard as the evidence on the screen. "Now. Do you still think I'm the one who needs to take responsibility?"
She expected this to be her checkmate. The irrefutable proof that would allow her to walk out of this room and never look back.
Ewart glanced at the video. His face remained a blank canvas. Then, the corner of his mouth tilted up in a smile that wasn't a smile at all. It was something else. Something calculating and possessive.
His gaze dropped from the screen to her hand, which was gripping the tablet. Her sleeve had ridden up slightly, exposing her wrist. For a fraction of a second, his eyes locked onto a thin, white scar that circled her wrist like a thread. His expression flickered, so subtly she almost missed it.
Then he pulled out his own phone and dialed a number.
"IT," he said, his voice calm and authoritative. "I have an unauthorized access event on the 25th-floor security server. I want all surveillance data from last night, from 2200 hours to 0600, flagged for Level-S encryption. Send the raw data directly to my personal server. And revoke all other access."
He hung up.
He looked at Fiona, his eyes glinting with that unnerving amusement again. "Nicely done, little hacker."
A cold alarm bell started screaming in Fiona's head. His personal server? How could he give a direct order to the hotel's IT department?
As if reading her mind, Ewart walked slowly to the massive window. He gestured with his chin toward the street far below, where the hotel's name was emblazoned in massive, polished brass letters above the entrance: APEX GRAND.
"I apologize," he said, turning back to her, his voice smooth as silk. "I forgot to properly introduce myself."
He paused, letting the silence stretch, enjoying the dawning horror on her face.
"This hotel, and the Apex Global corporation it belongs to... they're mine."
The blood in Fiona's veins turned to ice. It wasn't just a hotel suite. It was his hotel. His entire kingdom. She hadn't just slept with her fiancé's powerful uncle. She had hacked his company's servers while standing in his private room.
Her proof. Her leverage. It had all just been delivered, gift-wrapped, into the hands of the one man she couldn't afford to have it.
He closed the distance between them again, his shadow falling over her. He reached out, his fingers gently tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. His touch was light, but it felt like a brand.
"Now," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her. "Let's discuss how you're going to take responsibility."
Pride, fierce and stubborn, surged through her. She would not be a pawn in his game. She jerked her head away from his touch.
"I won't be manipulated by you," she bit out, her voice trembling with suppressed fury.
Ewart Blake actually chuckled. A low, humorless sound. He let his hand drop.
"Oh, you will," he said, his certainty absolute. "Because you have no other choice."
