“That I’m going to a hotel with a man I met six hours ago.”
“Having second thoughts?”
“More like fifth or sixth thoughts.”
His mouth curves. “But you’re still here.”
“I’m still here.”
And that’s the truth, isn’t it? I could’ve said no. Could’ve walked away at baggage claim or while we were waiting for the car. But I didn’t, because some reckless part of me wants this. Wants him. Wants one night where I’m not scared or running or pretending to be someone I’m not.
Well, I’m still pretending. He thinks I’m Catherine, not Aurelia Vance.
The hotel lobby is pristine and minimalist, and when we walk through it, the staff greets Cassian by name.Welcome back, Mr. Rourke.
He doesn’t acknowledge them beyond a brief nod. He simply heads straight for the elevators with me following, and I realize this is his world. Power and money and people who know better than to ask questions.
The elevator is empty when we step inside. He scans a card and hits the button for the penthouse, and I lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that got me through the last six hours is wearing off, leaving me shaky and aware of how little sleep I’ve had recently.
Cassian notices, because of course he does. “When’s the last time you slept?” he asks.
“In a bed? Or just in general?”
“Either.”
I think about it. The motel two nights ago had a mattress that felt like concrete, and I barely managed four hours before a door slammed somewhere and I jerked awake, heart racing. Before that, I’d dozed in a bus station for maybe an hour.
“I don’t remember,” I say finally.
The elevator opens directly into his suite.
Not a hallway. Not a door with a key card. Just straight into a massive open space with views of the city spreading out in every direction. Massive windows turn the city into a glittering backdrop. There’s a bedroom visible through an open door, and I catch a glimpse of a bed that could fit four people comfortably.
“This is where you’re staying?” I ask.
“For now.”
“For business meetings.”
“Something like that.” He moves past me, shrugging out of his suit jacket and draping it over a chair. Then he pulls out his phone and frowns at whatever’s on the screen. “I need to make a call,” he says. “It’ll take ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Make yourself comfortable.”
Then he disappears into the bedroom, and I’m left standing in the middle of this absurd penthouse suite.
I drop my bag on the couch and head to the bathroom. It’s as ridiculous as the rest of the suite—marble everywhere, a shower big enough for multiple people, a soaking tub that could double as a small pool. I strip off the clothes I’ve been wearing since this morning and step into the shower, letting the hot water wash away two months of grime and fear and exhaustion.
When I’m clean, I stand there for a minute longer, letting the steam fill my lungs and trying to remember the last time I felt safe enough to take a shower this long.
I can’t.
I dry off with a towel that’s softer than anything I’ve touched in weeks, then dig through my bag for something to wear.
I didn’t pack with seduction in mind—most of my clothes are practical, meant for blending in—but I brought one set of lingerie because I’m twenty-three and sometimes a girl needs to feel like a person. It’s a black lace bra with thin straps and matching underwear that sits high on my hips. The lace is delicate, almost see-through in places, covering just enough to be interesting. It’s the kind of set that makes you feel powerful even when you’re wearing nothing else.
I slip it on and look at myself in the mirror. The contacts are gone now, my real hazel eyes staring back at me. The black dye is still holding, but underneath it I can see hints of my natural color starting to show through. I look like myself and not like myself at the same time.
Good enough.
I walk out of the bathroom and find Cassian sitting on the edge of the couch. His phone is still in his hand, but his attention shifts to me the moment I appear.
