Chapter 2

Elara

"Who the hell are you?!" I grabbed for the sheet, yanking it up to cover myself, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might break through my ribs. "What are you doing here?!"

"This is MY room." His voice was cold now, sharp as broken glass. He sat up, and I tried very hard not to notice that he was completely naked from the waist up. "Who are YOU? How did you get in here?"

"This is Suite 1216!" My voice cracked. I could feel panic rising in my throat, threatening to choke me. "My best friend gave me the keycard herself. Marcus was supposed to be here. Marcus was—"

I stopped. Looked around the room properly for the first time.

This wasn't right. None of this was right.

Where was Marcus? Where were his clothes, his bag, his phone that he always left charging on the nightstand? There was nothing here. Nothing but this stranger and the wreckage of what I'd thought was the most important night of my life.

"Oh, this is rich." The man's laugh was bitter. He swung his legs out of bed, and I turned away quickly, my face burning. "You knew my room number. You knew exactly where to find me. How much do you want? Just name your price and get the fuck out."

"What?!" I spun back to face him, forgetting about the sheet, forgetting about everything except the ice-cold fury in his words. "I don't want your money! Where's Marcus?! MARCUS!"

I was shouting now, my voice echoing off the hotel room walls. I scrambled out of bed, not caring that I was only wearing someone's—his—shirt that barely reached mid-thigh. I tore through the room like a madwoman, throwing open the bathroom door, checking the closet, looking under the damn bed.

Nothing. No one.

Just me and this stranger who thought I was some kind of—

My stomach turned. I pressed my hand to my mouth, fighting the urge to be sick right there on the carpet.

What happened last night?

I remembered the bar. Remembered Vivienne ordering round after round of cocktails, her laugh bright and infectious as she told me about Paris Fashion Week, about the finale slot she'd been offered. "This is huge, Elara. This is everything I've been working for."

I'd been so happy for her. So proud.

And she'd been so insistent about Marcus. About the hotel room. About finally "sealing the deal" before he left for two years.

"You've been together forever," she'd said, squeezing my hand. "He deserves this. You deserve this. Don't you want to give him something to remember while he's gone?"

I did. God, I did.

So I'd taken the keycard. I'd ridden the elevator up to the twelfth floor. I'd used the card to open the door to Suite 1216, and I'd walked into the darkness, and—

And then what?

I couldn't remember. The alcohol had made everything fuzzy around the edges, soft and warm and safe. I remembered hands on my skin. Lips on my neck. The weight of a body pressing me into the mattress.

I'd thought it was Marcus.

Oh God. Oh God, what did I do?

"Listen." The stranger's voice cut through my spiral. He'd pulled on a pair of pants and was watching me with something that might have been pity if it weren't mixed with so much suspicion. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but—"

His phone rang.

We both stared at it where it sat on the nightstand, vibrating insistently.

The stranger—whoever he was—picked up the phone.

He talked for a bit before he hung up.

I couldn't look at him. Couldn't look at anything except the carpet beneath my knees and the way my vision was blurring with tears I refused to let fall.

"Where's Marcus?" I whispered. "Where is he? He was supposed to be here. He was supposed to—"

But even as I said it, I knew. Deep down, in the part of me that had always known something was off about last night, about the way Vivienne had pushed so hard, about the room number that I'd been too drunk to question.

Marcus had never been here.

I don't know how long I stayed there on the floor. Time felt strange, elastic. I was vaguely aware of Damien moving around the room, getting dressed, making a phone call in a low voice I couldn't quite make out.

I pulled myself together piece by piece. Found my clothes scattered across the floor and put them on with shaking hands. My dress from last night was wrinkled, the zipper broken. I didn't care.

I had to find Marcus. Had to explain. Had to—

My phone buzzed in my purse.

I pulled it out with numb fingers, already knowing what I'd find.

A text from Marcus, sent twenty minutes ago:

Elara, I waited in the room all night. You never showed up. Did something come up? It's okay, I'll keep waiting. I'm about to board my flight to London. I'll bring you back something special. Love you. —M

The phone slipped from my hands.

He'd been waiting. In a different room. While I was—

I was going to be sick.

"Here."

I looked up. Damien was holding out a glass of water. His expression was carefully neutral now, all the anger from before locked away behind a mask of cold professionalism.

I didn't take it.

"I need to go," I said. My voice sounded strange, distant. "I need to—"

"Wait."

He moved to the desk, pulled out what looked like a checkbook. I watched him write something, his handwriting sharp and precise, before he tore off the check and held it out to me.

I couldn't see the amount from where I was standing. Didn't want to.

"Five hundred thousand dollars," he said. "For your discretion. What happened here stays between us. No one can know about this. Not your friends, not your family, not anyone."

I stared at him.

He thought—

He actually thought I would—

Like I'm a whore?