Sunlight stabbed through a gap in the curtains, piercing Giselle’s eye. She groaned. A relentless drumbeat hammered behind her temples. The stale taste of whiskey coated her tongue.
This wasn’t her bedroom.
The sheets were crisp, but not hers. The room was dark wood and chrome. It smelled of sandalwood.
She was naked. Her body ached with an unfamiliar soreness.
Fragments.
The video. The bar. A deep voice. A kiss.
She sat bolt upright, clutching the duvet to her chest, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs.
The bathroom door opened.
A man emerged, a white towel slung low on his hips. His dark hair was damp, water tracing paths down his torso. He was built like a predator. The man from last night.
He paused, drying his hair with another towel, his dark eyes watching her panic with detached amusement. But beneath the amusement, there was something else. The quiet satisfaction of a man who had expected exactly this moment.
A lifetime of training kicked in. A mask of composure settled on her face. She swung her legs out of bed, keeping the duvet wrapped around her, and found her purse. Her hands shook as she pulled out her wallet. Five hundred dollars. She threw the crumpled bills onto the rumpled sheets.
"Last night was a mistake."
Her voice was tight, brittle.
"This is for your trouble. We're even."
The man looked from the cash to her face. A low, deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. The sound of pure mockery. He dropped the towel and walked toward the bed. He loomed over her, a mountain of muscle and power.
He leaned down, bracing one hand on the mattress. With the other, he tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"You think I need your money?"
His voice was a silken threat.
It was then, with his face so close, that she truly saw him. The sharp planes of his cheeks, the intense, almost black eyes. She had seen this face before. In society pages. On the cover of Forbes.
The color drained from her face. Her lips trembled.
"You're... Garnet Crawford."
A slow, satisfied smile touched his lips, but not his eyes. His thumb stroked her bottom lip.
"So, you're finally sober. Hello, future sister-in-law."
Sister-in-law.
Kenneth's brother.
A strangled gasp escaped her. She shoved him away and scrambled off the far side of the bed, tripping over her dress. He moved with lightning speed, catching her around the waist and hauling her back against his bare chest.
"Let go of me!" she cried, her voice cracking. It was like fighting a statue. "You're insane! Last night was a mistake!"
He held her fast. His lips brushed against her ear.
"Not for me," he whispered. "For me, it was a beginning."
"I'm engaged to your brother!" she spat.
He laughed again, a humorless sound. "The brother who was fucking your best friend in his hotel suite yesterday?"
Her struggles ceased. Her body went rigid.
"How could you possibly know that?"
The question escaped before she could stop it. He didn't answer. He simply held her gaze, his expression unreadable, and let the silence stretch until it became its own reply.
His fingers traced the line of her spine. An unwanted shiver.
"I can give you what you want, Giselle," he murmured. "Revenge."
She pulled away from the dangerous allure of his offer. "I don't need your help. This is my business."
Her tone softened, pleading.
"Mr. Crawford... Garnet. Can we please just forget this ever happened?"
His grip tightened. For a fraction of a second, something flickered in his eyes—not anger, not amusement, but something closer to uncertainty, quickly buried. Then his expression hardened back into that unreadable mask.
"No," he said. The word was absolute. "I find you very interesting."
The fight drained out of her, leaving nothing behind. Her body went limp in his arms.
"What do you want from me?"
He finally released her. She stood there, clutching the duvet, as he moved to the closet and began to dress.
"What I want," he said, buttoning his cuffs, "you'll find out soon enough."
He placed a sleek, black business card on the nightstand.
"Get dressed. My driver is waiting for you downstairs."
It was an order.
He walked to the door, pausing to look back at her. For a moment, he seemed about to say something else. Then the mask slid back into place, and he was gone.
Giselle stood alone in the center of the vast, silent room. The rumpled bed was a testament to the catastrophic error she had made.
And somewhere beneath the panic and the shame, a colder thought was taking root. He had known. Before she'd said a word, before she'd thrown the money, before she'd even woken up—he had known exactly who she was and what had been done to her.
This was not a coincidence.
This was a trap she had walked into with her eyes wide open.
