PAIGE
My eyes fluttered open, and for one long, disorienting moment, my brain couldn't process anything. The ceiling above me was high and smooth, painted a soft, neutral color. Nothing at all like the cracked, water-stained plaster of my Hell's Kitchen apartment ceiling.
The light filtering through the windows was soft and golden, the kind of light that said it was mid-morning, not the harsh glare that usually woke me.
I pushed myself up on my elbows, the movement sending a dull throb through my head. It was the kind of ache that came from too much Starbucks coffee and not nearly enough sleep.
The blankets surrounding me were impossibly soft Frette linens, the sheets feeling like high-thread-count Egyptian cotton. The pillows were too fluffy and perfect, molding around my head. This was not my IKEA bed. This was not my room.
I looked down. A cold, sharp shot of panic lanced through me. I was wearing a nightdress. A silky, slip-like thing that felt expensive against my skin. It was a pale champagne color, and it definitely wasn't mine. My heart began to hammer against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear.
I scrambled to a full sitting position, my eyes darting around wildly. The room was huge, almost the size of my entire apartment. Everything was clean, modern, and minimalist. A low, wide platform bed, sleek furniture made of dark wood and metal, and abstract art on the walls. It all looked like it cost more than my entire life savings.
A giant floor-to-ceiling window dominated one wall, offering a breathtaking, panoramic view of the Financial District skyline I'd never seen from this angle before. I was high up. Very high up. This had to be a Tribeca or SoHo penthouse.
And then I saw him.
In a sleek, modern B&B Italia armchair in the corner, Reomen Daki sat. He was dressed in crisp, dark Brunello Cucinelli pants and a simple but undoubtedly expensive shirt, his hair perfectly in place as if he'd been up for hours.
He held a morning newspaper, the physical kind, his eyes calmly scanning the pages as if he didn't have a single care in the world.
He was in his home. Which could only mean... I was in his home.
The memories of last night crashed into me like a wave. Finishing the mountain of work. The late hour. His Mercedes-Maybach pulling up beside me on the dark street. The tension in that silent car ride. Me falling asleep...
He must have felt my stare. He lowered the paper slowly, his dark eyes meeting mine across the vast room. There was no surprise in them. Just a calm, knowing, utterly infuriating look.
"Good morning," he said, his voice even, as if we did this every day. "You were... rather out of it last night. Bringing you to your walk-up seemed unnecessarily complicated." He stated it like a simple fact, devoid of any apparent emotion.
He folded the paper with precise movements and set it aside on a small Knoll table. His gaze swept over me, taking in my obvious panic, the foreign nightdress, everything.
"Coffee?" he asked, gesturing towards a sleek Bang & Olufsen carafe and a single cup on a tray beside him. As if this were a normal breakfast. As if I woke up in his penthouse every single day.
I could only stare, my mouth dry, my mind screaming one single, terrifying question over and over.
"Who changed my clothes?" I asked, the words coming out in a choked whisper.
The panic must have been plain on my face. My hands clutched at the silky fabric of the nightdress, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. My wide eyes flew from the dress to his smug, composed face.
A slow, infuriating smirk spread across his lips. He let the silence hang in the air, thick and heavy, watching my internal meltdown with obvious enjoyment. He leaned back in his chair, the picture of arrogant ease.
"Who do you think did it?" he asked, his voice a low, teasing purr designed to get under my skin. "You were completely dead to the world. I carried you in from the car myself."
My face burned. A wave of hot humiliation washed over me, followed by a confusing, jumbled mess of anger and something else I refused to name or even acknowledge. My mind raced, conjuring unwelcome images—his hands…
He let me squirm for another long, agonizing second, his dark eyes dancing with cruel amusement. He was savoring this.
Then he gave a casual, dismissive wave of his hand, as if swatting away a fly. "Relax. It was my housekeeper. She's in her sixties and has no interest in your scrawny frame beyond making sure you didn't sleep in your coffee-stained blouse."
The relief was so sudden it left me dizzy and lightheaded. But it was quickly swallowed by a fresh, hot wave of pure fury. He'd let me think about it. He'd deliberately let my imagination run wild, enjoying every second of my panic and discomfort.
Before I could snap at him, could even form a coherent sentence of outrage, he stood up, smooth and effortless. "She left your clothes, cleaned and pressed, on the chair in the ensuite." He pointed towards a door I hadn't noticed. "There's a toothbrush in the package there too. I expect you to be in the car in fifteen minutes." He checked his Patek Philippe watch, a slim, expensive-looking thing on his wrist. "We're already late."
He turned and walked out of the bedroom without another glance, leaving me sitting in the middle of his gigantic bed, surrounded by impossible, oppressive luxury, seething with a mixture of utter rage and a strange, unsettling curiosity about the man who had just undressed me without ever laying a finger on me.
---
AUTHOR
Meanwhile.
Across the East River, the air in the lavish penthouse suite of The William Vale was cold and still, thick with the cloying scent of expensive perfume and simmering, unspoken rage. Payton Rimestone paced like a caged animal, her Christian Louboutin heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor, each click echoing her furious tension.
"She was there, Mother! In handcuffs! I had her exactly where I wanted her!" she seethed, whirling around to face Barbara, who sat perfectly composed on a silk-upholstered settee, her posture ramrod straight. "And then, poof! Gone! Someone posted her bail. Someone with a lot of money."
Barbara Rimestone took a slow, deliberate sip of her tea, her expression unreadable, a mask of icy calm. She placed the delicate Bernardaud china cup back on its saucer with a soft, precise clink. "Screaming about it won't change the outcome, Payton. It merely reveals your lack of control. We must think. Who would intervene on her behalf so quickly? And with such significant resources?"
Payton's eyes lit up with a vicious, jealous fire. "It has to be a man. It's always a man with her. She probably batted her eyelashes at some old fool with more money than sense." A nasty smirk twisted her lips, an expression of pure spite.
A third figure stood quietly by the floor-to-ceiling window, observing the Williamsburg skyline and the Manhattan skyline beyond as if it were a chessboard. The man, known to them as a trusted family advisor, turned. His face was a mask of calm concern, carefully constructed and neutral.
"The sum was… considerable," Denki said, his voice measured, each word chosen with care. He adjusted the cuff of his Tom Ford suit. "It suggests a protector with deep pockets and a very strong motive." He paused, letting the tension in the room build to an almost unbearable level before delivering the calculated blow. "My contacts in the precinct confirmed it. The bail was wired personally from a private account. The name on the account was Reomen Daki."
The name landed in the opulent room like a physical object, shattering the tense silence.
Payton stopped her pacing dead. Her jaw went slack. "Daki?" she breathed, the name a mixture of shock and furious disbelief. "The tech CEO? He paid for it? Why would he— How does she even—?"
Barbara's composure finally shattered. The delicate china cup in her hand clattered back onto its saucer, tea sloshing over the rim onto the polished surface of the B&B Italia coffee table.
Her spine straightened rigidly, and all the color drained from her face, leaving her usually impassive features stark with pure, unadulterated shock. The pieces weren't just clicking into place; they were exploding, rearranging the entire game board in an instant.
Her disgraced daughter was not under the protection of some faceless, easily intimidated benefactor. She was under the protection of one of the most powerful and notoriously ruthless men in the city.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, charged with the new, terrifying reality.
It was Barbara who broke it, her voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss, all pretense of icy calm gone, burned away by a raging fury. "That little viper," she spat, the words corrosive. She smoothed the lapel of her Chanel tweed jacket, a gesture of habit more than necessity. "She hasn't just found a shield. She's found a weapon."
She turned her burning gaze to Denki, her eyes narrowed to slits. "This changes everything. He's not just some fool to be manipulated. This is a direct challenge."
Denki nodded slowly, his expression the perfect picture of loyal concern. "It does. And it makes the approach more delicate. A direct attack on her now is an attack on him. We must be smarter." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "We make her seem like a liability he can't afford. A leak of his secrets from her computer. A rumor of her incompetence that costs his company a major deal. We make him want to be rid of her."
A cruel, cold smile finally graced Barbara's lips, the shock hardening into a terrifying, diamond-hard resolve. She looked from her daughter's vengeful face to her devoted advisor, a new, malicious plan already forming behind her eyes.
"Yes," she said, the word sharp as a blade. "We don't break the shield. We make him throw it away himself." Her smile widened, a truly frightening sight. "She wanted to play in the real world with a powerful man? Fine. Let's show her what happens when that man turns on her." She glanced out the window. "And have Charles bring the car around. The Maybach. We have plans to discuss