CH. 3

The car glided to a seamless halt outside a towering, ultra-modern high-rise in the city's most exclusive zip code.

My mind was still reeling. I could still taste him on my lips, could still feel the phantom weight of his hands on my skin, along with the terrifying, intoxicating way my body had simply surrendered without a single thought of self-preservation.

The driver opened the door, and cool, damp night air rushed into the cabin, breaking the heavy spell that had settled over us.

Adrian stepped out first, buttoning his suit jacket with fluid motion.

When I hesitated, gripping the strap of my cheap backpack, he reached in and grasped my hand, pulling me gently but firmly out onto the pavement.

Adrian didn't let go. Instead, he tucked my hand into the crook of his arm, his other hand settling heavily at the small of my back.

It was a possessive, inescapable hold as he guided me through the gleaming, marble-floored lobby.

The night concierge immediately stood at attention, offering a deferential, "Good evening, Mr. Sutherland," while carefully keeping his eyes averted from the bruised, disheveled girl tucked at the billionaire's side.

Adrian merely gave a curt nod, steering me toward a set of frosted glass doors at the far end of the lobby.

A swipe of his keycard opened a private elevator.

The doors slid shut, and the elevator shot upward with stomach-dropping speed.

I watched the digital floor counter blur from 50, to 60, to 75, and finally 88.

When the doors finally parted, they didn't open into a hallway. They opened directly into his world.

I stepped out and my breath caught in my throat.

The penthouse was a sprawling, multi-level expanse of floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a breathtaking, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the glittering skyline. But despite the staggering luxury, the space was entirely devoid of warmth.

It was a fortress of modern minimalism decorated in shades of grey, blinding white. There were no photographs, no soft throws, no signs of a life lived.

The furniture was sharp and angular, the artwork abstract and cold. It felt like a high-end showroom, a place designed to intimidate rather than comfort.

"This way."

He led me down a wide, shadow-drenched corridor, his hand never leaving my spine until we stopped in front of a heavy oak door.

He pushed it open, gesturing for me to enter.

The guest room was larger than my entire childhood home.

A massive, king-sized bed sat in the center of the room, draped in crisp, pristine white linens.

A thick, plush charcoal rug covered the dark hardwood floor, and through an adjoining door, I could see the gleaming fixtures of a sprawling marble bathroom.

"The closet is fully stocked. Help yourself to whatever you need. Toiletries are in the bathroom."

I stood in the center of the room, clutching my backpack to my chest.

I looked toward the massive walk-in closet, where I could see rows of designer dresses, silk blouses, and expensive lingerie hanging in perfect, color-coordinated rows.

My exhaustion and the sheer surrealism of the night finally eroded my filter.

"Why would you have women's clothes here?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Adrian's posture shifted. The faint, cruel smirk that curved his lips was a warning I recognized a second too late.

He stepped over the threshold, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him.

I instinctively took a step back but Adrian took two steps forward.

I backed up again until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the mattress, trapping me.

Adrian stalked me with slow, deliberate grace of a predator who knew its prey had nowhere left to run.

He didn't stop until he was standing flush against me, forcing me to tilt my head back just to meet his eyes.

"You want to know if I bring other women here."

I swallowed hard.

My silence was all the confirmation he needed.

"I've fucked women on every available surface of this penthouse. The kitchen island. The living room floor. That window."

He gestured vaguely toward the floor-to-ceiling glass behind me, his dark eyes never leaving mine.

A hot, shameful flush crept up my neck, staining my cheeks.

"I could show you. Right now."

I drew in a sharp, ragged breath as his hands settled on my hips. Even through the thick fabric of my skirt, the heat of his palms was searing.

"Would you like that, Verity?"

I couldn't speak. I was entirely paralyzed, caught in a terrifying psychological tug-of-war.

Half of my brain was screaming at me to push him away, disgusted by the raw, graphic image he'd just painted of his playboy lifestyle. However, the other half, the dark and broken half that had craved him for two years, was flooding my body with heavy, pooling arousal that made my thighs tremble.

Adrian seemed to know exactly what he was doing to me. He could feel the tremor in my body and became bolder.

His hands slid slowly up my sides, deliberately avoiding my bruised ribs to trace the sensitive curve of my waist.

He mapped the lines of my body with slow, agonizing pressure, moving higher until his thumbs brushed the undersides of my breasts through my cheap blouse.

I gasped, my eyes fluttering shut as my back arched instinctively toward his touch.

My hands gripped his forearms, not to push him away, but to hold him there.

A low, dark sound of approval vibrated in Adrian's chest. Then, just as suddenly as the fire had ignited, the heat was gone.

Adrian stepped back, dropping his hands entirely.

The psychological whiplash was so severe I actually swayed on my feet and my eyes flying open in confusion.

Adrian was already adjusting his cuffs, his expression snapping back into the impenetrable, icy veneer of the CEO.

The raw, hungry hunter from a second ago had vanished, replaced by the cold, calculating billionaire.

"Get some rest. Tomorrow morning, we'll discuss your living arrangements." He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

"Wait."

Adrian paused with his hand on the brass doorknob and glanced over his broad shoulder.

"Where are you going?"

His smile was a slow, dangerous slice of white in the dim lighting. "Out!"

With that single, devastating word, he stepped into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me entirely alone.

Out.

He was going out. To see one of those women he had just described so clinically.

The tabloids were full of them—models, heiresses, actresses. I was just a bruised intern from the slums.

The thought shouldn't have felt like ice water. I had no claim on him. But it burned like acid in my chest.

I sank onto the edge of the mattress, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes.

What had I agreed to? I had traded my father’s violent, squalid cage for Adrian Sutherland's gilded one.

And the truly terrifying part was that a broken, twisted piece of my soul desperately wanted to stay.

I forced myself to stand and explore the penthouse.

The living room furniture looked like it had never been sat on.

The kitchen was all marble and spotless. Not a single personal touch anywhere. No photos, no books, no evidence that anyone actually lived here.

It was a fortress. Cold and impenetrable.

Just like him.

I returned to the guest room and opened the closet.

There were women's clothes inside, designer labels, still with tags attached. Dresses, blouses, and jeans, all in size 8.

How did he know my size? Or he prefers women my size.

Did he keep a revolving wardrobe for his conquests? Or worse... had he bought these specifically for me, yet deliberately taunted me with tales of other women just to keep me off balance?

It was exactly the kind of cruel, calculated game a notorious playboy would play.

The thought sent a chill down my spine.

I grabbed a soft T-shirt and pajama pants, changed in the bathroom, and climbed into bed.

The sheets were cool and smooth beneath me. The mattress was the most comfortable thing I'd ever laid on.

But I couldn't sleep.

I kept replaying the kiss in the car. The way his hand had felt on my throat. The casual cruelty in his voice when he'd described all the women he'd been with.

The way my body had responded to him despite everything my mind was screaming.

Realization settled in; I was in so much trouble!