Sunlight assaulted the room. Angelina woke with a start, her heart instantly hammering. She sat up. The space beside her was empty, the sheets cold.
The bathroom door was open, steam billowing out. She could hear the shower running.
She grabbed her phone. Five texts. All from Brittain.
Where are you?
Did you stay at your mother's?
Answer me.
Don't forget dinner tonight.
She typed back, her fingers flying. Sorry, phone died. Stayed at the spa late and crashed in the lounge. See you at home.
Lies. They came so easily now.
Harrison walked out of the bathroom. He had a towel wrapped low around his hips. Water droplets clung to the dark hair on his chest. He looked refreshed, vibrant, completely unbothered by the moral implications of the previous night.
"Morning," he said, walking to the dresser where his watch lay. "I have a board meeting at nine. You should probably go before the maids start their rounds."
The warmth from the burgers was gone. He was back to being Harrison Juarez, the CEO.
His phone, sitting on the nightstand, began to buzz. The screen lit up: Bianca.
Harrison groaned. He was toweling off his hair and couldn't reach it. "Do me a favor? Decline that."
Angelina looked at the phone. Bianca Sterling. The ex-girlfriend who still thought she had a claim. A mischievous, reckless impulse seized Angelina.
She picked up the phone. She didn't hit decline. She hit Accept.
She didn't say a word. She just held the phone, letting the ambient noise of the hotel room-the rustle of sheets, the sound of Harrison moving-filter through.
"Harry?" Bianca's voice was tinny and shrill. "Harry, are you there?"
Harrison turned, seeing the phone in her hand. "What are you doing?"
Angelina tapped End Call instantly. She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. "Oops. Wet fingers. Sorry."
Harrison narrowed his eyes. He walked over, took the phone, and checked the call log. He looked at her, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You're trouble."
"I'm learning," she said. She stood up and began to dress, pulling on the Chanel armor.
When she was fully dressed, she turned to him. "What's your bank account number?"
Harrison paused, buttoning his shirt. "Excuse me?"
"The room," she said. "And your... fee."
His face darkened. "I told you, I'm not a gigolo."
"And I told you this was a transaction," Angelina said, her voice crisp. She pulled out her phone, ready to open her banking app. "I don't like debts. Especially not to you."
Harrison moved in a blur, his hand closing over hers, stopping her thumb from tapping the screen. "Are you an idiot?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "You're planning to leave him, and you're going to create a direct, time-stamped wire transfer from your account to his biggest rival? Brittain's accountants would find that in an hour. You'd be handing him the moral high ground and half your settlement on a silver platter."
Angelina froze, the cold logic of his words sinking in. He was right. It was a stupid, emotional mistake.
He let go of her hand. "I don't want your money," he said, his tone softening slightly. "I want the look on Brittain's face when he realizes what he lost. Consider this an investment. You owe me."
"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Juarez," she said, her voice tight. She wasn't used to owing anyone anything.
She walked out the door without looking back.
Harrison stared at the door she had just exited. He ran a hand through his damp hair and whispered, "Damn."
