Chapter 2

I went completely still.

Julian tilted his head slightly, those gray-blue eyes pinning me with dangerous intent. "A dildo?"

I forced my expression neutral, deflecting coldly. "Who knows. System must be bugged."

[This system does not malfunction. Proceeding to Secret Exchange Mode.]

The mechanical voice ignored my denial entirely. The pure white space fell silent.

My fingers instinctively clenched around the ties of my hospital gown. Last thing I wanted was to show my cards to my worst enemy.

And the secret I was hiding? Absolutely deadly.

The system delivered its cold verdict:

[Julian will begin. Please reveal a secret the other party does not know within ten seconds.]

[Ten, nine, eight...]

Julian leaned back against the wall with infuriating ease, a wicked smirk playing at his lips. "I'm eight inches. Does that secret count?"

The red light flashed sharply.

[The other party already knows this secret. Judgment: Failed.]

The countdown stopped abruptly. The smugness vanished from Julian's face.

He closed the distance in one step, his tall frame suffocating the air between us.

"Maeve," his voice dropped dangerously low, "how the hell would you know that?"

I clenched my jaw.

Because two months ago in Vegas, when all eight inches drove into me at full depth, it stretched me so brutally I couldn't even scream—that's how I knew.

It all traced back to that party in Vegas two months ago.

Someone had slipped him something nasty, and through some fucked-up twist of fate, I ended up being the unlucky one trapped in that penthouse suite, bearing the brunt of his drugged frenzy.

That night, no matter how much I cried or cursed him with the vilest words I could find, he was completely gone—past the point of hearing anything.

He bit into my collarbone savagely, pounding into me with zero restraint.

When I woke the next morning, he was still knocked out cold from the drugs.

I felt like I'd been run over by a truck. Looking down, my chest was covered in horrifying bite marks and bruises, and between my legs was a wreck—swollen, bleeding, destroyed.

The sight scared me so badly I didn't even have the strength to kick him.

I threw on my clothes through gritted teeth, destroyed the sheets, hacked into the hotel network to wipe every corridor camera, erased every trace that I'd ever been there.

I severed the memory forcibly and met his scrutinizing gaze without blinking.

"Sophomore year of high school, swim class. Men's locker room door wasn't shut all the way. Pretty nauseating, honestly. Wish I could bleach my eyes."

A low, arrogant laugh rumbled from Julian's throat.

His eyes dragged over me shamelessly, his lips curling into something vicious. "Save it, Maeve. Any girl who sees this gets wet before she can blink. 'Nauseating'? You're full of shit."

I was about to snap back when the mechanical voice cut in emotionlessly, restarting the countdown.

Julian studied me for two seconds, then shrugged as if conceding. He tossed out his second secret:

"Fine. Freshman year, that idiotic Homecoming Queen vote? I'm the one who submitted your photo."

The red light flashed again.

[The other party already knows. Judgment: Failed.]

He raised an eyebrow. "You dug that up too?"

I let out a cold laugh. "What do you think? How else did your private number end up featured on Grindr's homepage the next day?"

That candid shot had captured me mid-snarl—blood at the corner of my mouth, uniform torn to shreds, flipping off the camera like some feral little punk.

I'd been certain back then it was some asshole's idea of a prank to humiliate me.

So the night I traced it back to him, I helpfully filled out a dating profile on his behalf: [Mouthy brat desperately needs a strict Daddy to break him in.]

For an entire week, every dom top in New York blew up his phone.

The mechanical voice issued a piercing warning, cutting through my schadenfreude:

[Male participant has failed twice. Warning: If the final attempt also fails, the system will forcibly remove both parties' clothing and initiate deep contact protocol.]

[Countdown: Five, four, three...]

Under the countdown's pressure, Julian finally dropped the act.

He straightened abruptly, broad shoulders pulled tight. His Adam's apple bobbed with visible difficulty, and he spoke like every word cost him:

"Senior year, when your foster father kicked you out and you almost couldn't pay tuition..."

He stared straight into my eyes, voice gone hoarse. "There was no 'anonymous alumni scholarship.' That money came directly from my private trust to MIT."

My entire body went rigid. Even my breathing stopped.

At the same time, a soft chime. The green light turned on.

[Secret accepted.]