With that, we take golden elevators up to the seventh floor, and walk down a hallway with cream colored carpet and artwork decorating the walls. Finally, Hunter opens the door to a suite that smells faintly of cedar and clean laundry. The floors are carpeted in a plush grey pile, and there’s a couch, a massive TV, and a desk in the main room. Just past that is a bedroom with a gleaming en suite attached to it. There’s even a small kitchenette, with a dishwasher and granite countertops.
Hunter sets the gas station food on the coffee table, then gestures to the en suite. “There’s a shower, if you want. Clean towels. Just call downstairs if you need anything.”
For a second I think he’s going to speak more, but he just retreats to the living room, his cell phone in hand. I’m not sure who he’s calling but exhaustion hits me, and I feel dirty. I close the bathroom door, strip out of my dirty clothes, and step into the shower. The water is hot enough to sting, and I let it. I scrub my hair, picking out little bits of glass and asphalt, and watch pink water swirl down the drain.
When I come out, wrapped in a towel, there’s a fluffy white robe folded on the bed. I pull it on and sink onto the edge of the mattress, exhausted.
He’s waiting in the living room, watching the city through the window. He turns when I enter, and something flickers in his eyes—a heat, or maybe just concern. I can’t tell. I sit gingerly on the couch, and for a second, we just look at each other across the chasm of this unfamiliar space.
He sits, hands clasped. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks. “About tonight? Or before?”
I shake my head, eyes burning. “I can’t remember,” I say, voice barely a whisper.
He nods, like he understands. Maybe he does.
We sit in silence, broken only by the city hum outside. Eventually, my body gives up on me, and my eyes start to close.
“You’re safe here, Daisy,” Hunter says, voice low and absolute. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
For the first time since the crash, I believe it.
I drift, half-asleep, the taste of his name—Hunter—lingering on my tongue.
Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll remember who I am.
Tonight, I’m just Daisy.
3
CHAPTER 3 – FINDING SANCTUARY
Hunter
Iwake up in a room that costs more per night than most people make in a month, and my first thought is: I’m an irredeemable piece of shit.
The sheets are black Egyptian cotton, soft as sin, and the sun stabs through the shades in hard, gold blades. I’m naked, hard, and my mouth tastes like last night’s whiskey and regret. I sit up. My head’s not even pounding—billionaire hangovers are a whole different species—but the same old guilt sours the back of my throat.
I swing out of bed, grab the glass of water I left on the nightstand. The suite is a cathedral of hedonism: smoked mirrors, a panoramic view of the city, the skyline gleaming with the promise of easy money and easier sins. There’s an oil painting of a nude above the fireplace—tasteful, yet obscene if you stare too long.
My phone buzzes on the credenza. I snatch it up, scroll the missed texts, the market updates, the one-line demands from my board. Nothing new. Then I see the last message, a system alert from the Sanctum concierge. “Your guest in Suite 701 has requested an 11:30 a.m. brunch reservation. Shall we confirm?”
Fuck. That’s right. My “guest.”
Last night’s memories slot in like teeth on a gear. I left a work dinner early, ditched countless VIPs, and drove out to the warehouse district. On my way, I nearly ran down a girl with wild blonde hair, stumbling and lost. I pulled over, ready to call an ambulance, but when she turned her face to me—blue eyes, plush pink pout, and the kind of dazed beauty that belongs in a romance novel—I knew her instantly.
Tara.
My curvy stepsister.
The one I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for a year now.
Except Tara didn’t recognize me. Not at all. Her pupils were blown wide, and when I asked if she needed help, she just kept walking. The curvy blonde was shivering, shaking, clutching a coffee-stained sweater around her perfect tits. She had no wallet, no phone, no clue how she’d gotten there.
It hit me like a punch: Tara had lost her memory. But how? When? She was clearly an amnesiac in need of help.
But what did I do, in that split-second of cosmic opportunity? Did I call our parents, or call the fucking police? No. I wrapped my coat around her and told her I’d take care of everything. Then I brought her to a hospital to get checked up, and shefreaked out. She said no, and started trembling like a deer in the headlights.
That’s when the asshole in me took over because I still didn’t call our family. Instead, I transported Tara straight to Sanctum. My club. My fortress of privilege and vice. Where they know how to keep secrets, for the right price.
