The Presidential Suite of the Imperial Hotel.
A woman stood completely naked before Sebastian Hartwell. Renowned across Imperial City's elite circles as the most sought-after socialite—the kind men fantasized about but rarely touched—she'd built her reputation on champagne flutes and midnight exits, never overnight stays. When Alexander Hahn had asked if she'd spend the night with Sebastian Hartwell, she'd agreed without hesitation.
Sebastian Hartwell. The man perched atop Imperial City's social pyramid. Rumors claimed he never indulged in women's company. Had he chosen her?
Sebastian sat on the plush sofa, cigarette smoke curling around him like a shroud. His eyes flickered over her bare skin, cold and detached. Tentatively, she approached, settling onto his lap. His sculpted features could melt any woman's resolve. She draped her arms around his neck, her voice honeyed and breathless.
"Mr. Hartwell…"
Sebastian crushed his cigarette into an ashtray. In one swift motion, he seized her wrist and flung her to the marble floor.
"Get out."
"Mr. Hartwell?!" She gaped at him, humiliation warring with confusion. He'd summoned her. He was dismissing her.
"Now." His tone left no room for debate.
"I won't leave!" Pride flared within her. To be thrown out naked? Unthinkable for Imperial City's top socialite.
Sebastian stood, hauling her up by the arm. His grip felt bone-crushing, like her wrist might snap.
"Put your clothes on and leave," he snarled, "or I'll toss you into the hallway as you are."
Tears streamed down her face as she scrambled into her dress and fled.
Alone, Sebastian paced the suite. A restless energy crawled beneath his skin, furious and unfamiliar. Not every woman would do.
He dialed Clara Morgan's number.
"Mr. Hartwell? How may I assist you?" Her voice, clear and sweet, cut through his agitation.
"Get to the Imperial Hotel Presidential Suite. Half an hour." He hung up.
Clara arrived breathless at the suite door, every muscle screaming. She knocked, bracing herself.
Sebastian yanked it open, his expression stormier than midnight.
"Three minutes late, Miss Morgan."
"My apologies, sir. I was across town when you called—I drove straight here."
Sebastian didn't reply, tapping rapidly on his phone. A second later, Clara's phone chimed. She glanced down, blood freezing in her veins.
+$40,000.
Again?!
"Mr. Hartwell, this is—" Memories of last night flooded back, her legs trembling.
"Not enough?" His voice dropped dangerously low.
"No! I don't need money—" She bit back a sob. Why me? Any woman in this city would gladly take my place.
Sebastian closed the distance, fingers digging into her jaw. "Don't want this? Then why seduce me?"
Pain sparked behind her eyes. She clutched his wrist, pleading. "Please—you're hurting me. Can we… wait a few days?"
Tears glistened on her lashes, her face pale and vulnerable—a drenched kitten seeking shelter. Something twisted in Sebastian's chest. He released her.
Clara scrambled backward, putting precious space between them. One more night with him might kill me.
Sebastian's gaze snagged on the half-open backpack slung over her shoulder. An Imperial City Hospital pharmacy bag peeked out.
"Shower. Now."
"Shower?" Relief vanished, replaced by fresh dread. Hadn't he relented?
"Problem?"
"N-no, sir. Right away." She fled to the bathroom, heart hammering. Defying Sebastian Hartwell meant vanishing without a trace. Fine. Let it hurt. At least I have painkillers.
Wrapped in a hotel robe, Clara emerged to find Sebastian already showered and reclining on the bed. His eyes raked over her.
Without makeup, her face was ethereal—dewy skin, obsidian hair cascading past her waist, water droplets tracing her collarbone. Heat coiled low in Sebastian's abdomen, a traitorous fire igniting.
Damn it. The socialite's naked form had revolted him. This girl in a bathrobe? She set his blood alight.
He patted the mattress beside him. "Come here. Lose the robe."
It's really happening. Clara's soul fractured. Mechanically, she crawled onto the bed and shrugged off the robe.
"Legs apart." His command vibrated with rough velvet.
She squeezed her eyes shut. I won't survive tonight.
Then—icy coolness bloomed between her thighs. She jerked upright. Sebastian knelt between her legs, cotton swab in hand, gently applying…
Medicine?!
Clara shot backward. "Mr. Hartwell! I can do that myself!"
"Can you see?" His eyebrow arched.
"I—I can try—"
"If you can swab your own crotch blindfolded, Miss Morgan, quit this job and join the circus."
The ghost of a smile faded from his lips. Clara knew that look: absolute authority.
Cheeks flaming, she lay back down. Mortification choked her. Just smother me with a pillow.
Five minutes later, Sebastian held up the tube of topical gel.
"I'll keep this."
The message was clear: Need it reapplied? Come to me.
Clara nodded, hastily rewrapping herself and standing.
"If that's all, sir…?" Her voice trembled.
"Sleep here tonight."
Clara's mind reeled. Just sleeping? Sharing a bed without…? Since when does Sebastian Hartwell want bedtime stories?
He watched her—a fresh-faced like college girl stripped of her secretary armor. He simply couldn't let her leave.
Not tonight. She was hurting.
Since when do I care?
Clara's anxious frown melted into a fragile smile as she met his obsidian gaze. "Of course, Mr. Hartwell. Just let me handle a few things first."
In the living area, she gathered his discarded suit, bagged it for laundering, and called housekeeping. Next, she ordered his breakfast: 60°C black coffee, a sunnyside-up egg with molten yolk, thick-cut Dream Bakery toast, and Bordier butter. Sebastian loathed crowded breakfast buffets.
From the bed, Sebastian tracked her movements—efficient, intuitive. She knew him. Too well.
Clara slid under the covers beside him, pressing herself against the far edge of the king-sized bed. Last night, pain had dragged her under. Tonight, terror kept her awake. At this rate, I'll have raccoon eyes down to my cheekbones.
Suddenly, a hand fisted in her robe's collar, dragging her backward. An arm banded around her waist like steel.
"Lights out," Sebastian ordered.