Sunlight hit Isa's eyelids like a physical blow.
She groaned, her neck stiff from sleeping at an awkward angle. The adrenaline crash from last night was worse than any hangover. She realized immediately she wasn't in her own bed.
She was still on the velvet chaise lounge, but a heavy, black men's dress shirt had been draped over her shivering shoulders like a blanket.
Memory returned in a violent rush. The live stream. The escape. The dark room.
The man.
She sat up so fast the room spun. She pulled the oversized black shirt tighter around her wrinkled red silk dress.
The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, carrying the scent of sandalwood soap.
Gerhardt Phillips walked out.
He was wearing a towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the hair on his chest, trailing down over defined abs to the V-line disappearing beneath the white terry cloth.
He looked nothing like the shivering, delirious wreck from last night. He looked like a predator who had just finished a meal.
He stopped when he saw her awake. His eyes were clear, cold, and calculating. He looked at her not as a woman, but as a specimen in a jar.
"You're awake," he said. His voice was devoid of emotion.
She clutched the black shirt tighter, a useless shield. "Mr. Phillips. Thank you for the... blanket. But I can explain-"
He walked to the nightstand, picked up a document, and tossed it onto the coffee table in front of her.
"Non-Disclosure Agreement," he said. "Fill in the amount on the second page. Then get out."
She looked down at the paper. It was standard legal boilerplate, but the blank line for the settlement figure was an insult. He thought she was a whore. Or worse, a blackmailer.
"If you breathe a word about last night," he continued, turning to the mirror to adjust his wet hair, "about the fact that I didn't throw you off the balcony the moment you touched me... I will bury you."
He wasn't worried about a sex scandal. He was worried about his weakness being exposed. The great Gerhardt Phillips, cured of his famous haphephobia by a disgraced socialite. It made him look vulnerable.
Isa felt a spark of anger ignite in her chest. It burned away the fear.
She picked up the document. "You think you can buy me?"
"Everyone has a price, Ms. Faulkner. Especially one who just nuked her own engagement and was likely disowned by breakfast."
He knew. Of course he knew.
She took the paper in both hands. She didn't look at the amount line. She ripped the document down the middle. Then again. And again.
She let the confetti rain down on his pristine rug.
Gerhardt turned slowly. His jaw tightened. "Greedy?"
She stood up, her bare feet sinking into the carpet. She drew herself up to her full five-foot-nine height. "I'm not a prostitute, Mr. Phillips. And I'm not a blackmailer. Last night, you were the one holding onto me when I tripped. I stayed because the press trapped me, not to extort you. That's false imprisonment, not a service."
For a second, she thought he might hit her. A flicker of something-surprise?-crossed his face.
The doorbell rang. A sharp, insistent sound.
"Sir!" A muffled voice came from the hallway. "Dowager Helena is here. And the press is swarming the lobby asking about a woman coming up to your floor!"
Isa's blood ran cold. If she was seen leaving Gerhardt Phillips' penthouse the morning after her engagement imploded, the narrative wouldn't be 'brave victim.' It would be 'slut.'
Gerhardt looked at the door, then back at her. The calculation in his eyes shifted.
He grabbed a remote and pressed a button. The heavy curtains slid open, flooding the room with light.
He walked toward her.
She stepped back, hitting the edge of the chaise lounge. "What are you doing?"
"Improvising," he muttered.
He reached out. She flinched, expecting violence.
His hand landed on her bare shoulder. His fingers were cool, his palm dry. He paused, waiting. She saw him hold his breath, waiting for the nausea, the panic.
Nothing happened.
His thumb brushed her collarbone. A strange, electric jolt went through her. Not fear. Something else.
"Still works," he whispered to himself.
The bedroom door burst open.
"Gerhardt! I demand to know why security is-"
An elderly woman with hair like spun silver and a cane that looked like a weapon stood in the doorway. Behind her were two burly bodyguards.
Dowager Helena Phillips. The matriarch.
She stopped dead. Her eyes went from Gerhardt's hand on Isa's shoulder to her wrinkled red dress, then to the torn paper on the floor.
Gerhardt didn't pull away. He stepped in front of her, shielding her slightly. "Grandmother. You're interrupting."
Helena's eyes narrowed. She peered at Isa, recognition dawning. "The Faulkner girl? The one who put her fiancé's infidelity on Instagram Live?"
Isa wanted the floor to open up and swallow her.
"She has spirit," Helena said, a slow smile spreading across her face. "And she's in your room. Alive. Touching you."
"Barely," Gerhardt drawled.
Helena tapped her cane on the floor. "Excellent. The board is meeting on Monday. They want to discuss your... stability. The rumors about your 'condition' are hurting the stock. A wife would silence them. Marry her."
"Excuse me?" Isa choked out.
"Marry her, Gerhardt," Helena commanded, turning to leave. "Or I freeze your ten percent. And fix her dress. She looks like a train wreck."
The door clicked shut.
Gerhardt dropped his hand from Isa's shoulder instantly. He looked at her, the cold mask back in place.
"Well," he said, "it seems the price just went up."
