CHAPTER 1: The Morning After

ELENA’S POV

Six Months Earlier 

It started with a headache, a dull, pulsing ache that beat rhythmically behind my eyes and thudded through my temples. 

I groaned, burying my face deeper into the pillow, seeking cool relief, but stopped when the texture registered against my cheek. 

This wasn’t my pillow. It was too soft, too fancy, and it smelled of cedar and musk—a distinctly masculine scent that made my stomach lurch with sudden dread. Oh no.

I cracked one eye open. Floor-length windows let aggressive sunlight stream into the room, casting everything in a rich, golden haze. 

The sheets were Egyptian cotton, the kind I knew by sight from lifestyle magazines, the kind that cost more than my entire month's rent. 

My breath caught in my throat. Slowly, painstakingly, I rotated my head to the right.

And there he was. The man from last night.

He lay on his stomach, one thick arm thrown carelessly over the pillow, his face half-smothered in the sheet. 

Even in sleep, he was intimidating—dark hair tousled, a jaw so chiseled it could be a weapon. He looked like he belonged in a high-end cologne ad. 

Relentlessly, the memories of the night came flooding back: the hotel bar, the burn of too many tequila shots, and his eyes—icy, gray, predatory—locking onto mine across the room. And the sex. Oh God, the sex.

I pressed my eyes shut as heat crawled up my cheeks. He’d been brutal, the kind of good that made you question everything you’d done in your life up to that point. Which meant only one thing: he was a professional.

I sat up slowly, wrapping the sheet tightly around my chest. My cheap black dress was slung over the back of a chair, and my heels lay by the door like evidence at a crime scene. 

I peeked back at him. He hadn’t moved. Meanwhile, my insides were turning to soup. No normal guy looked like that. 

No normal guy was that skilled in bed. And no normal guy stayed at a hotel this plush unless he was working.

The deduction smashed into place with horrifying clarity. He was an escort. High-end, obviously, probably costing thousands a night, and I had just slept with him for free.

I had fifty-three dollars in my checking account. I needed to get out. Now.

I slid off the bed, snagging my dress in one hand. My fingers shook uncontrollably as I zippered up the side, but walking out without paying felt wrong—dangerous, even. 

I pawed through my wallet and found a fifty-dollar bill, the last remnants of my paycheck. I stared at it for a long moment, then pulled a pen and a sticky note from the hotel nightstand.

You were great, but you talk too much. Buy yourself some breakfast.

I dropped the note and the fifty-dollar bill on his pillow, right next to his sleeping face. It was better this way. Just business. Simple. Done. 

I snatched my purse and tiptoed for the door, my hand hovering over the handle. I turned back for one last look. 

He was still sleeping, his chest rising and falling in an even rhythm, but for a second—just a fraction of a second—the hairs on my spine prickled with a warning I couldn’t quite name.

I shook it off and slipped out the door.

The city was coming to life outside, chaotic and loud. I hailed a cab and sank into the backseat, my adrenaline crashing.

“Where to?”

“Queens,” I mumbled. “And go.”

My phone vibrated in my purse. I dug it out, expecting a text from my roommate, but instead, a calendar reminder flashed on the screen: MEETING WITH BLACKWOOD INDUSTRIES – 9 AM. DO NOT BE LATE.

My blood turned to ice. Blackwood. The meeting I’d been prepping for all week, the pitch that would either make or break my career. Adrian Blackwood. CEO. Corporate raider. 

The Ice King of New York. My hands started shaking violently. No. It had to be a coincidence. A common name.

But as the cab hurtled through the city toward Queens, a sick coldness unfurled through my chest. Because in my heart of hearts, I already knew. 

I was about to walk into the most important meeting of my career. 

And I’d just left fifty dollars on my potential client’s pillow.