Isadora looked completely stunned, her breath catching as she stared at the glowing red letters that appeared on the door handle.
What the… she thought, her pulse climbing as panic began to coil tightly inside her chest.
It was bad enough that security hadn't stopped her yet, but the fact that the card she was using wasn't working only made everything worse.
Shit! Shit! Did I get the wrong room? Her mind spun frantically, replaying the waitress's words over and over in her head.
"It's 513! I'm sure of it!" she whispered to herself, staring at the golden numbers on the door as though they might somehow save her.
But they didn't. The cold reality remained, and her stomach dropped. With a sharp breath, she quickly stepped back and turned toward the door on her left, her panic mounting with every second.
Going back to LLara with her shirt ruined and smelling like a nauseating mixture of too-sweet and too-sour drinks wasn't an option. LLara would only feel bad.
Presidential Suite! The words gleamed across the plaque. Isadora read them aloud in her mind as she gripped the handle, praying that whoever had stayed here hadn't locked the door. Perhaps—by some miracle—the universe would grant her a reprieve.
Holding her breath, she pushed down.
To her shock, the door yielded. Slowly, silently, it swung inward.
From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a security guard already moving toward her. Heart pounding, Isadora didn't hesitate. She slipped inside and firmly closed the door behind her, pressing her back against it.
Silence. Darkness.
Her chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, but as her eyes adjusted, she moved with cautious steps. With trembling fingers, she flicked on the light, her breath catching again as the room unveiled itself before her.
A presidential suite.
Even the living room alone was grander than the entirety of her family's home. The polished floors gleamed under the light, every surface immaculate, every detail a display of wealth she had never been close to.
For a moment she just stared, wide-eyed, then remembered what she needed to do—what she had to do. Get cleaned up. Change. And get out before whoever owned this place walked in.
Slowly, she headed toward the bedroom, already tugging at her drenched shirt that clung to her skin like a second layer. Her fingers worked down each button, one by one, until the damp fabric finally fell open, exposing the lace of her bra.
She was slipping the shirt from her shoulders when she froze mid-step.
Turning the corner, she looked up—straight into the gaze of a man seated in the vast bedroom.
He sat before the wide window, his presence striking, his posture relaxed as though he had been waiting there all along. His shirt hung open casually, revealing a sculpted chest, while long legs stretched out before him in fitted black trousers that only emphasized his tall frame.
In his hand, he held a book.
But Isadora didn't care about the book. She gasped, clutching her open shirt shut with both hands, her fingers trembling as she met his eyes.
His gaze was half-hidden behind the reading glasses perched on his face, but even so, it was piercing—an intense weight that made her heart hammer.
And then she noticed it.
His hair.
White.
Stark, silken white.
He bleached it, right? He has to have! The thought barreled through her mind as she gawked, heat flooding her cheeks. Yet as he looked at her, the way his eyes roved over her, unhurried, deliberate, her chest tightened, her pulse racing wildly.
Sweat prickled down her spine. She couldn't bear the silence. With a sharp bow, she blurted out, "I—I'm so sorry!" The words tumbled from her lips, stuttering harder than she wanted.
"I had no idea this room was taken! If I knew, I would have never stepped in! Th-the door was open!" she rushed out, her ears ringing with the sound of her own heartbeat.
The man didn't answer. Not immediately. Instead, she heard the subtle shift of movement as he sat forward. Her breath caught as he slowly removed his glasses.
The room remained cloaked in soft shadows, the pale glow of the moon outside spilling through the tall windows. But it was more than enough. Isadora could see his face clearly now.
And when she did, her eyes widened in shock.
Recognition.
It was a face she knew. A face LLara had shown her among others.
Even with her string of bad luck tonight, fortune—unexpected and dazzling—had just tilted back in her favor. Excitement surged through her veins, her palms growing clammy.
He looks nice. Kind. Smart. Nerdy, like me! she thought desperately. He won't reject me!
Her stomach twisted with regret. She should have kept her glasses on—something for them to bond over, something small but real.
She was ready to ask about his book, ready to seize the moment with whatever thread of connection she could find—when he spoke.
A calm voice. A handsome face, but when he spoke his words might as well have been brewed in hell.
"GET OUT."
For a split second, she froze. Had she imagined it? The command echoed so sharp, so final, that her mind refused to believe it.
But then his voice cut again, harsher, colder: "I won't repeat myself."
Fear twisted in her stomach. Isadora's expression faltered into something almost childlike, almost broken.
She had already lost her chance with Lorenzo—the blond, blue-eyed billionaire Llara had wanted her to pursue. To lose this man too? The thought crushed her, gripping her chest with panic. How many chances could she possibly get?
Aware that there was no way her luck was good enough for her to meet another billionaire or powerful man who would not take advantage of her before the night was over.
"Please!" she burst out, her voice pleading.
"I know you don't know me, but just give me f-five minutes. After that, I won't disturb you!" Her voice cracked, trembling. Her feet refused to move, rooted stubbornly to the carpet.
He should have had guards surrounding him. Men watching his every move, ensuring no one came near. Even Lorenzo had them.
And yet—here he was. Alone. She would only get one chance.
For a moment he studied her. Then, slowly, he turned his full attention her way. He leaned forward, resting his arms across his knees, the book dangling loosely in his left hand. With his right hand, he raised a quiet gesture.
Isadora swallowed hard. She wanted to focus on buttoning her shirt, on covering herself completely, but that would mean exposing herself further as she fumbled with the fabric. Instead, she found herself speaking, her voice soft, fragile, desperate—telling him about the miserable situation she and her father had found themselves in.