ANASTASIA
I woke up confused. Thick, syrupy confusion that clogged my brain and made everything slow. Then came the sharp, sour taste of regret on my tongue, stronger than the expensive whiskey that had started it all.
Sunlight sliced through a gap in the curtains like a blade. Dust motes floated in the air, tiny witnesses to the wreckage of the king-sized bed and the even bigger wreckage of my dignity.
I groaned, pressing my palms against my pounding temples. The ghost of Louis XIII Cognac—an eight-thousand-dollar bottle of oblivion I'd found after he left and stupidly drank alone—warred with memories that were both hazy and painfully vivid.
Skin against silk. The sound of fabric ripping. Those piercing green eyes holding me captive. The scent of him still clinging to my skin, cedarwood and something dark. Hands that had mapped every inch of my body with terrifying certainty.
None of it had been a dream.
I sat up, the impossibly soft sheets pooling around my waist. A wave of nausea rolled through me. My body felt like a stranger's. I looked down and saw the evidence painted across my skin—bruises blooming on my inner thighs and hips like dark clouds, my throat tender to the touch.
Shame flooded every inch of me, hot and burning. What have I done?
This wasn't me. I was control and discipline. I didn't steal. I didn't act on impulse. And I definitely didn't follow gorgeous strangers into hotel rooms I'd conned my way into, just to fall straight into their beds. Not just any stranger, either. Dominic Blackwood. The Dominic Blackwood. Billionaire. Recluse. The man who owned half of everything. And I'd told him my name. My real name. Like an idiot.
And after he slipped away while I slept? I'd raided the minibar and drunk myself stupid. A whole new level of reckless.
I scrambled out of bed, wincing at the deep, unfamiliar ache between my legs.
The bathroom was all cold marble and gleaming fixtures, and it felt like the room itself was mocking me. I stood under the scalding spray of the rain shower, letting the water beat against my skin, but it didn't wash away the feeling of being marked.
When I stepped out, I found a plush hotel robe hanging on the back of the door. I wrapped it around myself, grateful for the cover. My dress was gone. Torn to shreds on the floor somewhere. I spotted the ruined silk near the couch—a heap of expensive fabric that was now nothing but garbage.
I had nothing to wear.
The realization hit me like a cold slap. No dress. No spare clothes. Just the robe and my heels and the faint bruises on my thighs.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the wreckage of silk on the floor. Then I grabbed the robe, cinched it tighter, and tried to think.
My clutch was still on the nightstand. I opened it with shaking fingers. My credit card was there—a flimsy piece of plastic that represented my real life of budgets and quiet desperation. Some cash. Lipstick. And beside it all, the thing that had caused this chaos: the gold Presidential Suite keycard, still gleaming.
A new fear crept in, colder than the shame. The bill. The drinks at the bar. The cognac. The room itself. I'd played a game way above my league, and now the check was coming due. I had to get out before the real owner of the card realized her mistake. Before the hotel staff put the pieces together.
But I couldn't exactly walk through the lobby in a bathrobe.
I spotted a hotel boutique bag tucked near the closet. Room service. Someone must have ordered something. I dug through it and found a simple black dress, tags still attached. Probably meant for some other guest. Some other woman who actually belonged here.
I didn't care anymore.
I pulled it on. It fit well enough. Then I slipped into my heels, grabbed my clutch, and headed for the door with one last panicked glance around the suite—this palace that had been both a fantasy and a tomb of regret. Every step ached, but my mind was fixed on a single thought.
Disappear. Erase myself from this place. Pray that this catastrophic detour from my life could somehow be forgotten.
---
The walk through the lobby was brutal. Every crystal chandelier seemed to mock me, glittering monuments to a world I'd touched for one foolish night. My reflection in the polished marble was a stranger—a woman wearing a stolen dress, with a ghost's touch on her skin and a career in ashes.
Law degree. Finance degree. Recruited straight out of the top of my class. And this reckless stupidity was what I'd done with it. Even the concierge's polite nod felt like an accusation.
I kept my eyes forward and my spine straight, a perfect picture of calm hiding the hurricane of humiliation inside. I shoved through the heavy brass doors, hailed the first taxi, and sank into the worn backseat with a gasp that was almost a sob.
"Where to, miss?"
I gave the driver my address, the street name a sharp reminder of the world I was crawling back to. As the cab pulled away, I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes.
Three years.
I'd given that firm three years of my life. Eighty-hour weeks. Skipped birthdays. I'd built cases from nothing, won arguments that senior partners said were unwinnable. And Mark Caldwell took it all.
Mark, who'd never tried a case in his life. Mark, who rolled into the office at eleven with coffee he didn't pay for and stories about his father's golf games. He'd smile at me in the hallway. Call me "Ana" like we were friends. Then he'd show up in my office after hours, leaning against my doorframe with that lazy grin, asking if I wanted to "discuss strategy" over drinks.
The first time I said no, he laughed it off. The second time, his smile thinned. The third time, I told him straight—I wasn't interested. Not in drinks. Not in him. Not ever.
That was a Friday. By Monday, my cases had been reassigned. By Wednesday, partners I'd worked with for years wouldn't meet my eyes. Within two weeks, my name was being whispered alongside words like "difficult" and "unprofessional" and "not a team player." He didn't just get me fired. He made sure no one else would hire me either. Called in favors. Dropped hints. Painted me as a liability until my reputation was ash.
And my response to all of it? A night of petty theft. A stolen keycard. A stolen dress. And sex with the first wealthy man who looked my way. Not just any man—Dominic Blackwood. He knew my name. I knew his. I'd given my real name while committing a crime in his own hotel. The irony was bitter enough to make me sick.
The taxi dropped me at my building. A modest brick box that was my fortress. One bedroom. A hard-won escape from my mother's suffocating house of booze and a revolving door of deadbeat boyfriends. The space was simple, the bookshelves groaning under legal texts and financial journals.
I fumbled with my keys, my hands still shaking from exhaustion when a flash of black across the street caught my eye. Parked among the sedans. A low-slung Aston Martin. Impossible wealth on my quiet street. My heart slammed.
The driver's door opened. A tall figure unfolded himself. Recognition hit me like a blow.
"Damien?"
He turned. Wide grin. Ice-blue eyes holding something new. Something deeper. "Ana. There you are. I was starting to think you'd moved."
I froze. The awkward grad student I'd known four years ago was gone. In his place, quiet confidence. Cashmere. Tailored denim. Money.
"Damien? What are you doing here?" My voice came out thin. I was too aware of the stolen dress, the bruises on my neck and the hotel smell still on my skin. "I thought you were in Zurich."
He crossed the street. Smile softening. His eyes swept over me. The smile faltered when he saw my neck. Just a second.
"Surprise? I was in Zurich. Things changed. Can we talk? Inside?" Real concern in his voice. "You look like you could use a debriefing. Or a stiff drink."