Chapter Four

Eleanor 

I don't remember how I found myself back at the ballroom. 

I only remembered the champagne. Glass after glass, each one colder and sweeter than the last. It went down like water, a slow burn in my veins that blurred the edges of reality until nothing mattered until I stopped caring that somewhere behind those gilded doors, my sister was marrying the man I’d thought would be mine.

I found myself in the terrace garden, surrounded by flickering lanterns and the hush of night. My bare feet pressed into the damp grass. I could still hear the music through the glass walls waltz after waltz for the happy couple.

I lifted another glass to my lips. Someone cleared their throat behind me.

“Eleanor.”

My name rolled off his tongue like an intimate secret. I turned slowly, unsteady on my feet. He stood in the shadows, tall and lean in a midnight-black suit. Dark hair, eyes the color of old whiskey, warm and watchful, even in the darkness.

Damian Laird. The one man in that entire room who had looked at me with something that wasn’t pity. My father’s business rival. My ex fiance’s personal nemesis.

It almost made me laugh.

“Damian,” I murmured, tilting the glass toward him in a mocking salute. “Come to offer your condolences?”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t look away. “You’ve had enough to drink.”

I swayed closer, studying his face, so calm, so maddeningly composed. “Don’t pretend you care.”

“I don’t,” he said evenly. But his gaze dropped to my mouth, and his voice grew rougher. “Not the way you think.”

I should have walked away. I should have thrown the champagne in his face or locked myself in a bathroom to sob until dawn.

But something dark and reckless had taken root inside me. A hunger to destroy the last of my illusions.

“I want to forget,” I whispered. “Just for one night.”

His brow furrowed. “Eleanor”

I pressed a fingertip to his lips. The heat of his breath shivered over my skin. “Don’t say my name like that. Like you pity me.”

“I don’t pity you,” he rasped.

“Then prove it.”

His throat worked, and for a moment, I thought he’d walk away. But then his hand closed around my wrist firm, unyielding. A current snapped through me, bright and almost painful.

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” he said hoarsely.

“Maybe I do,” I whispered. “Maybe I’m tired of being the good daughter. The discarded bride.” I leaned in, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Maybe I want to be someone else tonight. Just this once.”

His breath caught. I felt it against my cheek, ragged and hot.

“You’re drunk.”

I smiled, a slow, wicked curl of my lips. “Then take advantage of me.”

For a moment, we just stared at each other, the air between us charged and trembling. Then he muttered a curse, low and filthy, and crushed his mouth to mine.

I didn’t taste regret. Just heat and want and the sweet relief of finally *feeling* something other than despair.

We stumbled back through the French doors, my hands tearing at his jacket, his fingers gripping my hips like he’d die if he let go. The music from the ballroom faded into a dull, ridiculous waltz. I laughed against his mouth, the sound half-crazed.

He kissed me harder, swallowing my laughter. “Tell me to stop,” he groaned.

“No.” My nails raked down his chest. “Don’t you dare stop.”

His breath shuddered over my skin as he backed me against the wall. My champagne glass slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. Neither of us looked down.

I tugged his head lower, kissing him with all the hunger and bitterness coiled in my chest. He tasted like expensive scotch and something dark I couldn’t name.

He whispered my name again, but this time it wasn’t pity. It was possession.

And God help me, I wanted to be possessed.

The next hour blurred into heat and motion my dress hitting the carpet, his hands sliding over bare skin, our mouths never parting for more than a gasp. He was rough and tender by turns, like he couldn’t decide whether to punish me or worship me.

When he finally sank into me, I didn’t think of Adrian or Aurora or the life I’d lost. I only thought of this man and the way he filled every hollow place inside me.

Afterward, I lay tangled in the sheets, my heartbeat still chasing his. His arm curled around my waist, heavy and warm. For a moment, I thought he’d fallen asleep.

But then his voice rumbled in the dark. “You’ll regret this.”

I closed my eyes. “Maybe. But not tonight.”

He didn’t argue.

I waited until his breathing slowed, deep and even. His hand still rested over my hip, anchoring me. And for one brief, shameful moment, I wanted to stay. I wanted to pretend that this was something real that he wasn’t just the most convenient weapon I could find.

But daylight was already creeping through the curtains. And I refused to let the sun find me here, clinging to another man who could never belong to me.

Slowly, I disentangled myself from his embrace. He didn’t stir. I stood on trembling legs and gathered my clothes, the champagne haze fading into a dull, throbbing ache.

On the desk, I found a hotel notepad. I stared at it for a long time, then picked up the pen.

Thank you for your services.

I read the words twice, feeling something bitter rise in my throat.

I forced myself to finish.

E.

I set the note beside the thick wad of cash I’d taken from my purse, more than enough to be insulting.

When I stepped into the hall, the early morning light was harsh and unflinching. My skin smelled of his cologne. My lips were still swollen from his kisses.

I didn’t look back.

*****

Hours later, Damian Laird woke to find the bed empty. He blinked against the pale dawn, frowning at the cold sheets beside him.

Then his gaze landed on the money and the note.

For a long time, he didn’t move.

Then he picked up the folded paper and read it again, his jaw tightening.

“Services,” he muttered under his breath, the word tasting like a challenge.

He crumpled the note in his fist and stared at the closed door with a glint in his eyes that promised this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.