Chapter Four

[ Vanessa's POV]

When my eyes slowly fluttered open, my head felt as if it were being split open from the inside out. A brutal hangover pounded behind my temples. I blinked against the dim sunlight, staring at a high, unfamiliar ceiling. I sat up slowly, the sheets sliding down my bare skin, and looked around the massive, quiet room.

Where am I?

Then my eyes landed on the bed beside me, and my heart nearly stopped.

A man was lying face down, fast asleep. Blurred, frantic flashes of the night before suddenly rushed into my mind—the club, the bodyguards, the door locking, the headboard, and the unbelievable heat of what we had done.

My cheeks burned bright red. Did I really just do all of that?

I peeked down at my body. My pale skin was littered with dark marks from my chest to my waist, along with faint bruises on my hips. I glanced over at him. His bare back was exposed to the morning light, covered in long, red scratch marks left by my own fingernails. A deep blush flooded my entire face. I couldn't believe this was me.

Panic instantly took over. I needed to get out of here before he woke up. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I slipped and hit the floor with a loud thud. I froze, holding my breath to make sure he hadn't stirred. A dull ache radiated through my legs. I felt so sore down there. What an absolute beast he was. Even after I had passed out, I could still remember the feeling of him inside me.

On my hands and knees, I crawled around the floor to gather my clothes, unable to even remember when he had stripped them off me. I scooped up my dress, but when I looked toward the headboard for my lace thong, my jaw dropped.It was completely shredded, each side tied securely to opposite posts of the headboard.

"Great. Just great," I whispered frantically to myself.

I couldn't walk out of a high-end club in a short dress with nothing underneath. Glancing around the room in a panic, my eyes landed on a neat stack of clean clothes on a chair near the closet. Sitting right on top was a pair of crisp, dark designer boxers and a button-down shirt.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

I grabbed his boxers and pulled them on. They were ridiculously oversized, riding high up my waist, but they covered me. I threw my dress on, pulled his crisp shirt over it, grabbed my heels in one hand, and tiptoed toward the heavy double doors.

Gently turning the handle, I breathed out a massive sigh of relief as the lock clicked open. I slipped out into the empty hallway, pulled the door shut until it clicked softly into place, and ran for my life.

............

Three Weeks Later

By the time three weeks had passed, my life had returned to its strict, predictable, almost boring routine.

My professional boundaries were my sanctuary. As a therapist, my job required patience, structure, and absolute composure. My small private clinic was my pride and joy—crisp white walls, organized bookshelves, and soft velvet chairs positioned near the entrance for clients, with my workstation centered in the room.

Yet, no matter how hard I tried to bury that night, my mind kept traveling back. The dark bruises on my hips and neck had long since faded, but every time I opened my bottom dresser drawer and caught a glimpse of those dark silk boxers, a sudden, unwanted surge of heat would flush through my chest. And his shirt... let's not even go there.

When I had finally stumbled back to my apartment that morning, my friends were already crashed on my couch, sleeping the night off. Once they woke up, they badgered me until I confessed everything that had happened. Naturally, it ended with endless teasing that continued weeks later.

"Ooh, look at you glowing!"

"Did you grow an inch overnight, or what, Mrs. Mysterious?"

Their teasing was driving me crazy, but even though I'd never admit it out loud, a tiny part of me liked it. It proved that crazy night hadn't just been a dream.

Standing in my office bathroom, I adjusted the lapels of my cream blazer in the mirror. Get a grip, Vanessa, I scolded my reflection. You are a professional.

A soft knock at my office door broke my train of thought. Stepping out of the bathroom, I saw my assistant, Sarah, poking her head inside holding a manila folder.

"Miss Vanessa?"

"I'm right here," I said, stepping into her line of sight. "Do you need something?"

"Actually, your 10:00 AM intake appointment is here," Sarah said, giving me an intrigued look. "The father called yesterday to book a private session for his son. He insisted on paying upfront for the entire month."

"Did he fill out the preliminary intake forms?" I asked, moving toward my desk to pick up my notepad and pen.

"Just the boy's name—Ronn."

"No surname?" I asked, pausing. How weird.

"The father said he preferred to discuss the background details in person." Sarah shrugged, turning back toward the lobby. "I'll send them right in."

"Thank you, Sarah."

I took a deep breath, smoothing down my skirt and assuming my best warm, welcoming posture. My golden rule was simple: keep my work strictly professional, maintain clear boundaries, and provide a safe space for every child who walked through my door.

I heard small, hesitant footsteps approaching in the hallway, followed by a heavy, deliberate stride that made the wooden floorboards vibrate softly.

"Right in here, sir," Sarah's voice echoed from the hall.

I stepped out from behind my desk, a polite, professional smile plastered on my face. "Hello sir, welcome to.... "

The words froze in my throat. The air was instantly sucked right out of my lungs.

Standing in the doorway, holding the tiny hand of a quiet five-year-old boy, was a tall, imposing man in a tailored charcoal suit. Dark hair. Sharp, lethal jawline. Broad shoulders that practically filled the doorframe.

He smelled of dark cedarwood and expensive whiskey.

My heart slammed against my ribs as my notepad slipped from my trembling fingers, hitting the floor with a loud sound.

It was him.