Dawn bled through Imperial City skyscrapers as Clara Morgan entered Sebastian Hartwell's corner office. The scent of bergamot and betrayal hung heavy in the air.
"Your coffee, Mr. Hartwell."
Sebastian's gaze snagged on the faint bruises circling Clara's wrist - mottled violets against pale skin. The alley thug's fingerprints. He sipped the dark roast, its bitterness perfectly calibrated. Yesterday's intern's attempt had tasted like dishwater.
"Those marks on your hand, Ms. Morgan?"
Clara's smile remained polished as bulletproof glass. "Kitchen mishap."
Lies wrapped in silk, Sebastian mused. He rose, trapping her hand beneath his. Her pulse hammered against his thumb. She could dislocate a man's knee yet pretended helplessness? The contradiction intoxicated him.
"Tonight," he breathed against her ear, pulling her against the hard lines of his body. "The estate."
Clara stiffened. In three years, she'd never crossed that wrought-iron gate. Rumor claimed even his COO Yan Wu hadn't seen the second-floor bedrooms.
"The... estate, sir?"
"Keys." Sebastian dropped cold metal into her palm. "Gate code: 0913. Be there by seven."
His nostrils flared as her shampoo - wild lilac and salt - triggered dangerous impulses. Focus, Hartwell. She's not a conquest; she's an equation.
Clara's Audi purred through iron gates at 6:48 PM. The Hartwell Estate dominated Central Park West like a stone panther - three stories of limestone arrogance behind black latticework. Inside, vaulted ceilings echoed emptiness. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a Japanese garden where koi swam like liquid coins.
Cold, Clara thought. A museum curated for one.
The Sub-Zero revealed Sebastian's asceticism: thirty identical bottles of Icelandic glacial water. No food. No condiments. Just silent condemnation of human frailty.
Clara Morgan's breath hitched as she opened the stainless steel refrigerator. Rows upon rows of identical Swiss mineral water bottles glared back - Sebastian Hartwell's sole sustenance. Not a single morsel of food disrupted the glacial perfection.
Does the man photosynthesize? she wondered, staring at the clinical arrangement.
Grabbing her phone, Clara defiantly ordered groceries. Let him rage. If this gets me thrown out, all the better.
When the delivery arrived, she changed into cozy athleisure wear, pulling her hair into a practical high ponytail. The kitchen transformed under her command - a symphony of sizzling pans and chopping knives. Vivian Sterling always swore Clara's cooking could make cynics believe in love.
Tonight's menu was pure rebellion:
Red wine-braised short ribs glistening under reduction glaze
Truffle-infused mashed potatoes whipped to cloud-like perfection
Sautéed wild mushrooms with garlic and thyme
Hearty minestrone brimming with seasonal vegetables
The aromas wove through the sterile mansion like insurrection. Clara deliberately cooked only for herself - Sebastian Hartwell would sooner lick a subway pole than eat "commoner" food.
As she arranged the feast at the marble island, Vivian's call shattered the moment.
"Where are you? Bruce landed from Zurich!"
"Not home," Clara hedged, eyeing her cooling short ribs.
"Clara Morgan, open your eyes!" Vivian's whisper turned urgent. "Hartwell destroys women like expired stock options! He'll—"
"—discard me? I'd host a parade if he did."
The brutal truth hung between them. Clara pictured Bruce Sterling's steady compassion - the antithesis of Sebastian's predatory control. If Bruce knew she was trapped in this gilded cage...
Appetite vanished. Surrender isn't an option, Clara resolved, tracing condensation on her water glass.
I will find a way to shake off Sebastian Hartwell.
Beep.
The electronic lock disengaged. Clara rose, steeling herself for Sebastian's predatory smirk.
Instead, a woman materialized in the foyer's gloom. Silver-blonde hair coiled into a flawless chignon. A cashmere-blend suit draped over knife-edge posture. Her porcelain skin glowed with the luminosity of old money, each feature carved with aristocratic precision. When her eyes—winter frost over granite—landed on Clara, she arched one sculpted brow.
"Who are you?"