AUTHOR
The sheets in Payton's lavish Brooklyn Heights penthouse were a tangled mess of imported linen.
She was a storm of restless energy, pacing the bedroom before throwing herself back onto the bed, her La Perla chemise doing little to contain her fury.
"She humiliated me, Denki! And Mother just… apologized! To her! She didn't let me finish it!" she seethed, her voice a sharp whine in the dimly lit room.
Denki lay propped against the headboard, shirtless, watching her with a calm that only seemed to fuel her anger.
As she stalked past the bed again, his arm shot out with practiced ease, his hand locking around her waist. He pulled her down onto his lap, her back against his chest, holding her in place despite her initial, half-hearted struggle.
"Your mother was doing damage control," he said, his voice a low, reasonable murmur near her ear. His grip was firm, possessive. "A scene like that helps no one. Especially not you." He paused, letting the truth of it sink in. "And my job is to protect the family's interests, not facilitate catfights at charity galas."
Payton squirmed, frustration evident in every tense line of her body. "She's a nobody! She's nothing! I could have destroyed her right there and no one would have cared!"
"You spilled wine on her, Payton. You didn't destroy her." His tone was flat, a gentle but firm correction that made her stiffen. "And she is not a nobody. Not anymore. She's under Daki's protection. Reomen is not a man we want to cross recklessly. Your mother knows that. You should learn it."
The mention of Reomen's name momentarily quelled her tantrum. A different, more calculating light entered her eyes. She turned her head to look at him, a sly, nasty smile playing on her lips.
"Fine. But I have something else in mind," she purred, her anger shifting into something more sinister. "Something smarter."
Denki's eyes narrowed slightly, his arms still wrapped around her. He knew that tone. It was the sound of a plan born of petty jealousy, one that could easily spiral out of control.
"Whatever it is," he said, his voice dropping to a warning whisper, "if it's another foolish move like tonight, your mother won't be the only one pulling you away for a talk. Cross Reomen, and you won't like the consequences. For any of us."
But Payton wasn't listening anymore. She was already lost in her own vengeful fantasy, confident that her next idea would finally put her pathetic older sister in her place for good.
Denki held her tighter, a silent sentry to a storm he wasn't sure he could contain.
REOMEN
The ride to the penthouse was silent, save for the soft hum of the Rolls-Royce's engine and the even softer sound of her breathing.
She didn't stir when the car stopped, or when I lifted her from the seat. She was a dead weight in my arms, all the fight and fire gone out of her, leaving behind only exhaustion and the faint, sweet scent of her hair mixed with the acrid note of drying wine.
I carried her through the silent, minimalist expanse of my Tribeca penthouse, not to my room, but to a guest suite. I laid her on the bed, the Frette linens swallowing her slight form.
In the dim light, she looked younger, the sharp edges of her defiance smoothed away by sleep.
Stepping back into the hall, I summoned my housekeeper with a quiet word. The older woman appeared moments later, her expression as impeccably neutral as ever.
"See to her," I instructed, my voice low. "The dress is ruined. Get her cleaned up and into something to sleep in."
The housekeeper nodded, her eyes flicking to the closed door behind me before returning to my face. There was a hesitation, a rare breach in her professional decorum.
She'd been with my family since before the money, since the days when a clean uniform was a luxury. She knew me better than most.
She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Young Master," she began, the old term of respect feeling strange in this sleek, modern hallway. "Is she... the new Mrs.?"
The question hung in the air, absurd and startling. A short, sharp laugh escaped me before I could stop it. The sound was harsh in the quiet corridor.
I shook my head, the smirk I used as armor settling back into place. "No," I said, the word final. "She's just a very expensive investment that requires maintenance. Nothing more."
The housekeeper simply nodded again, her face once again an unreadable mask. She slipped past me into the room, closing the door softly behind her.
I stood there for a moment longer in the hallway, the ghost of that laugh still on my lips. The idea was ridiculous. Paige Rimestone was a tool, a weapon, a means to an end. She was a complication. A liability.
But as I turned and walked toward my own room, the memory of her weight in my arms, the feel of her head against my shoulder, lingered like a stubborn scent. I pushed the door to my bedroom closed behind me, leaning against it for a second in the dark.
Just an investment, I told myself again, the words feeling hollow in the vast, empty silence of the penthouse. The lie was a necessary one, a barrier against a complication I could not, and would not, afford.
– – –
PAIGE
My eyes snapped open. 2:33 AM. The numbers glowed in the oppressive darkness of a room that was not my own. For a second, my heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic beat of pure disorientation. Then it all came rushing back. The party. The wine. His car.
This was his guest room. Again.
I pushed myself up, the impossibly soft Frette sheets whispering against skin that was clean. Someone had changed me.
The memory of the housekeeper's kind, efficient hands surfaced through the fog of sleep, a small mercy in a humiliating situation. I was wearing a simple, expensive cotton nightshirt that wasn't mine.
Blinking in the murky light, I fumbled on the nightstand until my fingers closed around my phone. The screen lit up, and I nearly dropped it.
33 Missed Calls. 15 Voicemails. 41 New Text Messages.
All from Leon.
A heavy sigh escaped me, a mix of guilt and exhaustion. I thumbed a quick message, my fingers clumsy with sleep. I'm alive. I hit send before I could think of anything else to say. The excuses could come later.
Thirst, a dry, persistent ache in my throat, pushed me out of the massive bed. The marble floor was cool under my bare feet as I padded silently to the door.
The penthouse was tomb-quiet, bathed in the cool, blue-silver light of the moon filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The Williamsburg and Manhattan skylines glittered like a spilled jewel box in the distance, a view so breathtaking it felt like a dream.
I moved like a ghost through the staggering open space, past minimalist furniture that looked like art, my goal, a kitchen I hoped was stocked.
My eyes adjusted to the gloom, taking in the stark perfection of it all. It was beautiful, and utterly soulless.
I found the kitchen—a vast landscape of polished marble and sleek, professional-grade Sub-Zero appliances. I opened a cabinet, then another, finding rows of identical crystal glasses.
I took one and filled it with cold water from the fridge door, the sound of the dispenser absurdly loud in the silence.
Leaning against the cold marble countertop, I drank deeply, the water a minor blessing. I was alive. I was in my enemy's penthouse, wearing his clothes, drinking his water. And I had no idea what game we were playing anymore.
The water was cool and blessedly ordinary in my parched throat. I was leaning against the cold marble, trying to process the surreal turn my life had taken, when a voice cut through the silence from the darkness behind me.
"Lost, Black Cat."