The hotel suite drowned in suffocating darkness, its velvet curtains swallowing every shred of daylight. Only a lone floor lamp cast a pool of amber glow in the corner, painting the room in shadows that danced like specters.
Beneath Sebastian Hartwell's imposing frame, Clara Morgan curled into herself, trembling like a drenched kitten. Tears welled in her eyes, each drop tracing paths down her flushed cheeks. Her fingers clutched the silk sheets—knuckles white, breath ragged.
"Mr. Hartwell, please... I was wrong. Let me go," she pleaded, her voice fraying at the edges.
Her choked sobs only ignited something primal in him. Sebastian's fingers trailed through her hair, tucking a stray strand behind her ear with deceptive gentleness. "Too late for regrets now, Clara."
In one brutal motion, he ripped her blouse open. Buttons scattered across the marble floor like fallen stars. His tie slithered off next, coiling around her slender wrists before he knotted it tight. When his mouth crashed against hers, it was less a kiss than a conquest—all teeth and bruising force. Clara cried out, but the sound died in her throat as searing pain tore through her. She squeezed her eyes shut, surrendering to the void.
Sunlight stabbed through the curtains at dawn, rousing Clara from fitful sleep. The shower hissed in the adjoining bathroom, a relentless white noise. Every muscle screamed in protest as she dragged herself upright. Her discarded blouse lay in tatters—only two buttons remained, clinging hopelessly to frayed threads.
She glanced down. Angry purple blooms mottled her chest and collarbones. A roadmap of shame.
The shower cut off. Sebastian emerged, a towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets glistened on his sculpted torso, tracing paths down the ridges of his abs before vanishing into the terrycloth. He didn't look at her as he scooped his phone from the nightstand. Clara's own phone buzzed seconds later.
$1,000,000.00 DEPOSITED - HARTWELL ENTERPRISES
"Buy the pill or book a clinic," he stated, thumb still scrolling through emails. "Your choice."
"Thank you, Mr. Hartwell." The words tasted like ash.
She scrambled into her pencil skirt and blazer, fabric rasping against tender skin. Professional armor for a soul in freefall. What have you done, Clara Morgan?
"Today's schedule?" Sebastian's tone could frost glass.
"What's on my schedule today?"
"Nine-thirty, a meeting with the CFO. Lunch with Consul Joshua from the embassy. Three p.m., video conference with the London headquarters. Dinner with your parents—unless you'd prefer to meet with Mr. Han and Mr. Rowe instead."
Sebastian nodded.
"At nine—"
"Sixty-degree Americano, Gesha beans from Jade Estate, hand-brewed." She finished his sentence.
Sebastian's gaze finally lifted, lingering on the curve of her waist as she turned to leave. His eyes flicked to the bedsheet—a faint rust-colored stain marring the ivory linen. Something unreadable flashed in his expression before the mask slid back into place.
"I'll see you in the office, sir." She bowed her head slightly and left.
Alone in her apartment, Clara tore off her clothes and stumbled into the shower. Scalding water pummeled her skin, but no amount of scrubbing erased the memory of his hands on her. She slid down the tiles, weeping until the steam stole her breath.
Her reflection mocked her in the vanity mirror: wide-set hazel eyes now swollen, rosebud mouth pressed into a thin line. Pretty, perhaps—but beauty hadn't saved her from Ethan Windsor's laughter years ago. "Look at Clara—four-eyed and doughy. Who'd want her?" echoed in her skull.
A text blinked on her phone:
Mom Windsor: Sweetheart,are you coming home for dinner tonight? Cook made your favorite coq au vin.
Home? The lie twisted like a knife. The Windsors had given her shelter after her parents' car crash, not love. Their charity came with chains—an arranged marriage to Ethan, their golden heir. The same Ethan she'd seen grinding against Homecoming Queen Serena Vance in the school's theater storage room on graduation day.
She bought emergency contraception on the way to Hartwell Tower, swallowing the pill dry. The pharmacist's pitying glance burned hotter than the August sun.
Flashback :
Clara hadn't become Sebastian's executive assistant by chance. Two years prior, she'd cornered him in Hartwell Tower's underground garage.
"Mr. Hartwell? Clara Morgan from Admin." She'd blocked his path to the waiting Rolls-Royce.
He'd eyed her like a stain on his Italian loafers. "Get. Lost."
"I want to be your EA."
"Try that again," he'd growled, "and security will drag you out."
Clara had dug her nails into her palms. "Give me one month. Fire me if I disappoint."
Later, HR called: "Report to the 80th floor tomorrow."
For thirty days, she'd perfected the art of invisibility. Memorized his quirks (coffee at 203°F, no eye contact during briefings), endured his rages (once reassembling a shattered Baccarat paperweight shard by shard), and deflected his friends' advances with glacial politeness.
And then—the fatal shift. Lingering touches when handing him files.
"Accidental" brushes against his wrist. That time she'd dabbed espresso foam from his lip with her thumb.
"Testing my patience, Clara?" he'd warned, catching her wrist.
She'd smiled sweetly. "You'd never hurt me, sir."
"Think I'm immune to temptation?"
"I'm not afraid."A lie.
Her plan was petty vengeance, not self-destruction. She'd imagined Serena's face when news broke that "doughy Clara" had seduced Metropolis's most unattainable billionaire. Instead, she'd awakened a predator.