CHAPTER 2

“Who are you?” I blurted.

The corners of her lips curved into a smile. Something about it sent a chill down my spine.

She snapped her fingers and two hefty men emerged from the corner. They seized my arms and dragged me toward the elevator. I tried to fight back. But I was no match for them.

“What do you want from me?” I rasped.

The older woman didn't answer. She simply pressed a button on the elevator, and the two men shoved me inside the moment the golden doors opened.

“Consider this your lucky night, sweetheart,” she said.

My lucky night? What was that?

Before I could dash forward, the doors slid closed and opened with a soft chime, revealing the breathtaking luxury of a penthouse suite. The room was vast, lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the midnight skyline of Washington, D.C.

My eyes locked onto Alec Rivera. He had discarded his ruined suit jacket on the plush rug. His crisp white dress shirt was halfway unbuttoned, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths. He was slumped against the edge of a massive king-sized bed. His face was flushed and a heavy sweat glistened on his forehead.

“Mr. Rivera?” I scurried to his side.

His eyes were bloodshot, fever-bright, and clouded with confusion that sent a shiver down my spine.

“What's happening to me?”

“I don't know. I saw you leaving the party.”

“I feel—” He sucked in a breath, his jaw tightening. “Different.”

I touched his forehead. “You're burning up.”

His fingers brushed my arm, and he flinched like even that small contact sent something sharp through him.

“Everything feels wrong.”

“We need to get you to the hospital.” I reached for my pocket and froze. Of course, the manager had asked every staff member to submit our phones. “Are you with your phone?”

He gave it to me. There was no signal. I checked the room's telephone, silence.

My pulse quickened. A luxury penthouse like this wasn't supposed to lose every line of communication.

“I need to go and get help.”

“Don't go,” he stuttered. “I— don't really trust anyone else.”

My eyes watered. It felt surreal hearing a billionaire say they trusted me.

“Okay. I'm not leaving.”

I rushed to the bathroom and soaked a clean towel in cool water. Adrenaline rushed through my nerves as I dashed back to the room and pressed the towel on his forehead and the back of his neck.

It didn't give him relief. Instead, his breathing accelerated as if his body couldn’t decide between collapsing and fighting.

He planted a hand on the mattress and forced himself to his feet.

The moment he straightened, his balance deserted him. I caught him, my fingers gripping his forearms as I guided him back on the bed.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered, his voice hoarse.

“For what?”

“I don't... lose control.”

“It's fine.” I offered a polite smile. “Sometimes, things can get out of control.”

He shook his head. “No. This is different. I feel str—ange.”

Quickly, I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, rushed back to his side and helped him drink.

He stayed silent for several long breaths, the frantic rise and fall of his chest gradually slowing. “Why are you helping me?”

I closed the bottle and lowered it on the bedside table.

“Because nobody else is.”

He rested his head on my shoulder. I could feel the tension slowly leaving his body, even though his breathing remained uneven.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You don't have to thank me.”

He lifted his head and looked at me.

There was something different in his eyes now. The arrogance I'd seen downstairs was gone. So was the coldness.

He looked... vulnerable.

“Most people in my world only stay because they want something.”

“Well, I don't.”

His gaze lingered on my face.

“You're kind.”

I smiled faintly. “I'm just doing what anyone would do.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not anyone.”

The vulnerability in his voice caught me off guard.

For the first time that night, I stopped seeing the billionaire everyone downstairs had been talking about. I saw a man who was scared. A man who needed someone.

And perhaps that was why I stayed.

Another silence stretched between us. He reached for the bottle and took another long drink of water.

Color had begun to return to his face.

“The pounding in my head is easing.”

I smiled, relieved. He finally looked like himself again.

His eyes dropped to my lips.

“Can I?”

My heart pounded. I should have said no.

Instead, I gave the smallest nod.

Maybe because I wanted to know what it felt like to be wanted, not because of my appearance, my job, or what I could offer someone, but simply because I was me.

He leaned closer and kissed me.

It was gentle at first. Almost hesitant. Nothing like the man I'd imagined him to be.

When he pulled back, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was unexpectedly gentle and electric, sending heat down my spine and somewhere I couldn't dare mention.

My heart raced.

“Tell me to stop if you want me to.”

I swallowed.

“I will.”

He kissed me again, slower this time, lowering me on the bed, then moved on top of me. This time, I didn't feel like I was helping a stranger. I felt like I was making a choice.

One I knew I might regret.

A moan escaped me as he kissed my jaw, my neck, his hands kneading my legs, my thighs.

Slowly, he pulled away and stood.

I watched him rip off his tie. His waistcoat. His shirt revealing an intricate tattoo on his chest, then his shoes... one piece at a time, his eyes never leaving mine, until he stood naked before me.

He was massive. Overwhelming.

Trembling.

“Are you okay, Mr. Rivera?”

“Yes,” he whispered as he removed my shoes and kissed my feet.

He peeled off my cheap uniform, my pantyhose and panties, and dropped to his knees. His tongue found me, deep long strokes that had me gasping and grabbing his hair. My whole body tightened.

I came embarrassingly so fast, chest heaving, my back arching off the bed.

He straightened, and our lips met again, intense and passionate. He joined me again on the bed and parted my thighs with his. He entered me with one, hard thrust.

Pain shot through me despite how much my body had welcomed him.

He was my first.

He had no idea.

Of all the people in the world, my first time had somehow happened with a man I barely knew, a man I had met only hours ago. Yet lying beneath him, I didn't feel ashamed.

He looked at me for a long moment, as though searching my face for something he couldn't quite understand.

“Will I see you again?” he asked.

“I–I don't know. It depends on you.”

“I want to see you again.”

Something inside me softened. I searched his eyes wondering if he meant those words or if he was still under the influence of whatever he took this evening.

Our lips met again.

We moved as one.

When it was over, he collapsed onto the bed beside me, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.

We panted.

I stole a glance at him. His eyes were closed. He looked asleep.

I turned to leave and his hands caught mine.

“Stay...please,” he pleaded, his voice rough.