Colette swallowed the cold water. The freezing liquid slid down her dry throat, the chill helping to clear the thick fog in her mind.
She gripped the glass tightly, using the cold sensation to ground herself. She cleared her throat, desperately trying to pull the shattered pieces of her haughty socialite composure back together.
"Tell me exactly what I did at the bar last night," she demanded. Her voice was scratchy, but she forced her chin up.
Alex pulled up a velvet chair and sat beside her bed. He crossed his long legs, resting his large hands on his knees. It was a relaxed posture, yet it radiated a quiet, dominant authority.
"You tried to order a vintage Bordeaux for a stray cat outside the venue," he deadpans. Not a single muscle in his face twitched.
Colette closed her eyes. A flush of deep, agonizing embarrassment crept up her neck, burning her skin.
"Then," Alex continued, his voice perfectly level, "you stood on a chair in the VIP section. You demanded that everyone raise their glasses and toast to Julian Sterling's absence."
Colette groaned aloud. She shifted the water glass to one hand and hid her face behind the other. Utter defeat crushed her chest.
"My reputation in the Upper East Side is completely ruined," she muttered into her palm. "I'm a joke."
Alex leaned forward. The leather of his shoes creaked slightly. "I cleared the VIP room before you made a scene. No one saw anything. No one recorded anything."
Colette peeked through her fingers. She stared at him, genuinely shocked by his meticulous damage control. He had protected her dignity when she couldn't protect it herself.
She slowly lowered her hand. The heavy walls she built around herself cracked. A sudden, terrifying wave of vulnerability washed over her. She was sitting in a bed, wearing his shirt, exposed and raw in front of her father's COO.
"Why didn't Julian answer?" she whispered. The question slipped out before she could stop it. "Twelve calls, Alex. Twelve."
Alex's jaw tightened imperceptibly. A dark, violent shadow flickered in his eyes for a fraction of a second before he buried it.
"He might have been caught up in Wall Street meetings," Alex deflected smoothly. "The Asian markets were opening."
Colette bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper. She looked down at her lap. She was twenty-four, wealthy, beautiful, and her fiancé couldn't be bothered to show up for her birthday.
"Did I look pathetic?" she asked, her voice cracking. "Crying over a man who forgot my birthday?"
Alex stared at her. He looked at her bruised ego, her slumped shoulders. His fingers twitched on his knees. He suppressed an intense, violent urge to pull her across the mattress and hide her against his chest.
"You are Colette Beaumont," he stated firmly. "You never look pathetic."
The absolute certainty in his voice hit her like a physical blow. Colette's heart skipped a strange, rapid beat. She looked into his dark eyes and saw no pity. Only an unwavering, intense gravity.
It unnerved her. She quickly looked away, her stomach fluttering with a sensation she refused to name.
Alex stood up smoothly. He reached up and buttoned his collar, instantly restoring his impenetrable professional facade.
"Mrs. Davies has prepared a hangover-friendly breakfast downstairs," he informed her, his tone back to business.
Colette nodded meekly. She pulled the oversized shirt tighter around her shoulders, suddenly hyper-aware of her bare legs beneath the blanket.
"Thank you," she said quietly. It was a rare moment of genuine gratitude from the spoiled heiress.
Alex paused at the bedroom door. His large hand rested on the brass handle. "Take the day off, Colette. Cancel your wedding planning duties."
Colette forced a tight, brittle smile. "I can't. I have a dress fitting today. I cannot miss it."
Alex nodded slowly. He masked his deep, visceral disdain for the wedding perfectly. He stepped out into the hallway and pulled the door shut with a soft click.
Colette fell back onto the pillows. She stared blankly at the ceiling. Her chest ached with an unsettling mix of dread for Julian's inevitable excuses, and a strange, lingering curiosity about the man who had just left her room.
