All Chapters of Dirty Valentine’s Secret : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The elevator ride to the penthouse was the longest thirty seconds of my life. I stood mirrored in the polished steel, clutching the strap of my bag like a lifeline. I looked like a ghost—pale, hollow-eyed, and trembling. The digital floor counter climbed higher and higher, leaving the safety of the world behind, ascending into the clouds where men like Ethan Hawke played god.When the doors slid open, they didn't lead to a hallway. They opened directly into a space that redefined the word opulent. It was a sprawling, open-concept expanse of marble and glass, overlooking a Manhattan that looked like a carpet of fallen stars."You're late," a voice drifted from the shadows. "Thirty-four minutes past midnight. I almost called the cleaners to tell them I’d changed my mind."Ethan was standing by a wet bar, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He had shed his suit jacket, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar and the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle. He look

The silence of the penthouse was louder than the screaming winds outside. After the chaos of the morning, Ethan had vanished into his private study, leaving me with a "styling team" that treated me like a piece of high-priced limestone being polished for an exhibit.By noon, my old life was packed into a single cardboard box, tucked away in the back of a walk-in closet that was now filled with silks, furs, and labels I couldn't pronounce. I sat on the edge of the bed, my skin smelling of expensive rosewater, wearing a knit dress that cost more than my grandmother’s car.I felt like a ghost haunting someone else’s life.Ethan hadn’t given me a key. He hadn’t given me a passcode. When I tried the handle of the front door, it didn't budge. The elevator required a biometric scan. I wasn't a guest; I was a curated collection.Restless and fueled by a simmering resentment, I began to pace the apartment. It was a masterpiece of minimalism, but as I walked, the "clean" aesthetic started to fe

The silence of the penthouse was not a peaceful thing; it was a clinical, pressurized vacuum that seemed to suck the very breath from my lungs. Ethan had left for Hawke Tower at dawn, leaving behind only the scent of his expensive espresso and a directive for me to "remain visible" for the security team.I was a ghost haunting a glass palace. Every time I moved from the kitchen to the living room, I felt the invisible weight of the cameras tucked into the molding. I knew he was watching. Somewhere in that monolithic tower downtown, Ethan was likely sitting behind a wall of monitors, tracking my heart rate, counting my steps, waiting for me to falter.I found myself drawn to his private study, a room that felt like the belly of the beast. It was a space of dark mahogany and deep shadows, a stark contrast to the blinding white marble of the rest of the apartment. I shouldn't have been there. The "contract" didn't explicitly forbid it, but the heavy, unsaid rules of our arrangement whisp

The rest of the rehearsal was a blur of mechanical movements and Ethan’s suffocating presence. Every time Damian so much as glanced our way, Ethan’s grip on me would tighten, his thumb tracing the line of my ribcage through the thin silk of my dress—a silent, physical claim.When Ethan was finally pulled away by a frantic phone call from his head of acquisitions, I retreated to the ballroom’s terrace. I needed air that didn't smell like his cologne or the cloying scent of lilies.The terrace was a stone ledge overlooking the city, the wind whipping my hair into a tangled mess. I leaned against the railing, my fingers tracing the cold ruby on my left hand."It’s a beautiful shackle, isn't it?"I didn't turn around. I knew the voice. "Damian. You shouldn't be out here. If Ethan sees us talking—""He’s currently screaming at a CEO in the hallway. We have five minutes," Damian said, stepping up to the railing beside me. He didn't look at me; he looked out at the skyline. "You look tired,

Part 1: The Debt The morning after the rehearsal brought a new kind of silence to the penthouse. Ethan had disappeared before the sun hit the glass of the skyscrapers, but he had left behind a "gift" on the mahogany dining table: a single, cream-colored envelope. Inside was a black titanium card and a note written in his aggressive, sharp cursive.“Eleven o'clock. Madison Avenue. Be ready. — E.”I spent the morning staring at the card. It felt heavy, like a piece of shrapnel. By the time the black SUV arrived to whisk me away, I had practiced my mask until it felt as rigid as the diamonds Ethan expected me to wear.The boutique was called L’Eclat. It was one of those places that didn't have prices on the tags because if you had to ask, you didn't belong in the building. The doors were locked to the public; for the next two hours, the entire three-story temple of fashion belonged to Ethan Hawke.And by extension, it belonged to me."Ms. Monroe," a woman with a razor-thin frame and hai