Lina's POV
"This is it, Miss Salvacion," Isabella says, her voice barely containing her excitement as we review the final contract details. "The Harrison Group represents the largest medical technology conglomerate in the country. If you secure this partnership, Salvacion Medical Marketing will officially be among the top five firms in the nation."
I smooth my hands over my burgundy Chanel suit, trying to calm my nerves. James Harrison III isn't just wealthy—he's one of the five richest men in America, with a medical technology empire that spans three continents. Landing his account would catapult my company into the stratosphere.
"Marcus, are you ready?" I ask my head of security.
"Always, Miss Salvacion. David and Antonio are positioned at all exits, and I've coordinated with building security."
The Harrison Group's headquarters is a gleaming forty-story monument to success, all glass and steel reaching toward the sky. As our convoy pulls up, I can see photographers waiting—word has leaked about this meeting, and the business world is watching to see if the rising star of medical marketing can land the whale of all clients.
James Harrison III is just like I thought: a smart, confident man with gray hair, dressed well, and showing power from his success. But he's also very friendly, asking good questions and really liking my company's growth plans.
After two hours of talking about plans, he says, "Miss Salvacion, your idea to make medical technology more caring is just what healthcare needs. The Harrison Group is proud to work with Salvacion Medical Marketing."
The contract signing is a blur of cameras flashing and congratulatory handshakes. I can barely believe it's real—my company, the one Rio gave me just weeks ago, is now officially competing with firms that have been established for decades.
"This calls for celebration," Mr. Harrison announces as we finish the paperwork. "I insist you join me for dinner tonight. Le Bernardin has held a table for us."
I glance at Isabella, who nods approvingly. This is how business works at this level—the contract signing is just the beginning of the relationship.
"Thank you, Mr. Harrison. I'd be honored."
"Excellent. And please, call me James. We're partners now."
Lina's POV - Evening
Le Bernardin is exactly the kind of restaurant where deals like this are celebrated—intimate lighting, impeccable service, and wine that costs more per bottle than most people make in a month. James has been the perfect host, regaling me with stories about building his empire and asking thoughtful questions about my vision for the future.
He lifts his glass and says, "Lina, working with you will be great. You're different from other marketing leaders. "Your way feels real and honest."
The wine is making me feel warm and relaxed, more so than usual. I've only had two glasses, but my head feels fuzzy in a way that doesn't quite match my alcohol intake.
"Thank you, James. That means everything coming from someone with your experience."
As the evening progresses, I begin to feel strange. The room seems to tilt slightly, and my thoughts feel sluggish, disconnected. When James suggests we continue our conversation at his private club, something in the back of my mind whispers danger.
"Actually, I should probably head home," I say, trying to clear the fog from my brain. "Early morning tomorrow."
"Of course, of course. Let me call you a car."
But as we stand to leave, the world tilts violently to one side, and I have to grip the table to keep from falling. Something is very wrong.
"I... I don't feel well," I manage to say.
"Just a bit too much wine, I'm sure," James says smoothly, his hand moving to my lower back in a way that feels too intimate, too possessive. "My driver can take you somewhere quiet to rest."
Panic cuts through the fog in my mind. This isn't wine. I've been drugged.
"No, I need to... I need to call..." My phone feels impossibly heavy in my hands as I fumble to unlock it. I sent Isabella, Marcus, and the security team home hours ago, thinking I'd be safe with one of the most powerful businessmen in the country.
I try Rio first, my fingers barely managing to hit the right numbers. The phone rings once, twice, three times before going to voicemail. He's probably in one of his late-night work sessions, ignoring all calls.
Desperation clawing at my throat, I scroll through my contacts until I find Diego's number.
"Lina?" His voice is concerned even through my drugged haze. "What's wrong?"
"Diego," I whisper, trying to step away from James, who's still hovering too close. "Something's wrong. I think... I think I've been drugged."
"Where are you?"
"Le Bernardin. James Harrison... he..."
"Stay on the line. I'm coming to get you."
Diego's POV
I've never driven faster in my life, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. Lina's voice on the phone was slurred, confused, and the fear I heard beneath her words made my blood run cold.
I arrive at Le Bernardin to find chaos. Two men are dragging a semiconscious Lina toward a black sedan while James Harrison walks beside them, his face a mask of fake concern.
"Hey!" I shout, sprinting across the sidewalk. "Let her go!"
The men look up, startled, and I see recognition dawn in Harrison's eyes. He knows he's been caught.
"Mr. Herrera," he says smoothly. "What a coincidence. Miss Salvacion had a bit too much wine, and I was just making sure she got home safely."
"Like hell you were." I reach Lina, who's struggling weakly against the men holding her. Her eyes are dilated, unfocused, and she's clearly been given something much stronger than alcohol.
"Diego?" she whispers, her voice small and scared.
"I'm here. You're safe now."
What happens next is a blur of violence. Harrison's men aren't expecting resistance, and I manage to get Lina away from them before they can react properly. I call my assistant, who arrives within minutes with backup, and Harrison and his thugs disappear into the night rather than face exposure.
Lina's POV
Diego's car is cool and dark, a refuge from the nightmare of the restaurant. But the drug in my system is getting stronger, not weaker, and everything feels too hot, too intense.
"Diego," I mumble, pulling at my jacket. "I'm so hot. Everything feels... wrong."
"I know, querida. We're almost to your home. Just hold on."
But holding on is impossible. The drug is doing something to my inhibitions, making everything feel hypersensitive and desperate. When Diego stops at a red light, I find myself reaching for him, my hands finding his face, his neck, anywhere I can touch.
"Lina, no," he says gently, trying to capture my wandering hands. "You don't know what you're doing."
"I know exactly what I'm doing," I insist, though even as I say it, I know it's the drug talking. I lean toward him, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that tastes of desperation and confusion.
Diego's body stiffens because inside, he feels a fight between wanting to answer and knowing this isn't real and not really me.
"Lina, stop," he whispers against my lips, but his voice is strained.
I kiss him again, deeper this time, my drugged mind unable to distinguish between gratitude and attraction, between safety and desire. Diego's hands come up to my shoulders, and for a moment I think he's going to pull me closer.
Instead, he gently pushes me back, his dark eyes full of pain and regret.
"This isn't you," he says softly. "This is whatever that bastard gave you."
The car pulls into the circular drive of Rio's penthouse building, and Diego quickly gets out to help me from the passenger seat. I'm still clinging to him, still trying to kiss him, still burning with chemical desire that has nothing to do with my actual feelings.
"Almost there," Diego murmurs, supporting most of my weight as we stumble toward the entrance.
That's when the elevator doors open, and Rio steps out, still in his business suit, probably coming home from another late night at the office.
He takes in the scene in an instant—me in Diego's arms, my hair disheveled, my lipstick smeared, Diego's shirt wrinkled from my grasping hands.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?" Rio's voice explodes through the lobby, raw with fury and something that sounds dangerously like heartbreak.