Because I’m a bastard. But I’m also a problem-solver.
I rub my face, stubble scraping my palm. In the reflection, my eyes look too sharp, too pale. They belong to a predator who doesn’t apologize.
There’s a knock at the door, soft and expensive. I answer it shirtless. A server in a white jacket offers me my espresso, single-origin Ethiopian, the only thing that gets me up anymore. He bows his head, ignores my half-naked state, and leaves a silver tray on the marble bar.
I sip, watching the city spin on below, and think about Tara—no, Daisy—sleeping off her trauma just two floors down. I should feel like a monster. I do, kind of. But the part of me that built an empire worth billions can’t help but see the upside. A blank slate. No family baggage. No judgment. Just this bright, sweet girl, helpless and dependent and way too trusting for her own good.
It’s fucked, but it’s also the only thing that’s made me feel alive in years.
I pace the suite, agitated. My body’s restless, skin too tight. I want to see her. No, Ineedto see her. I want to watch Tara try to remember, want to know how long she’ll stick to the Daisy act. I want to know what it’s like to meet her all over again, but this time, with all the power in my hands.
I’m scum. But opportunity is why I’m rich. It’s why people fear me, and why, at the end of the day, I always get what I want.
I shower, letting the water beat the knots out of my back. I’m still rock hard, the memory of her voice—”Thank you, Hunter, I feel so safe”—looping in my skull like a dirty prayer. The urge to jerk off is strong, but I want the edge. The edge makes everything sharper.
I get dressed slow, savoring the ritual. Custom Brioni, Italian leather shoes, a watch worth more than most cars. Power clothes. I slick my hair back, brush my teeth with a paste that smells like peppermint and costs $180 a tube. When I’m done, the man in the mirror is pure CEO. Cold. Calculating. Hungrier than ever.
I text the concierge: “Confirm 11:30. I’ll be bringing my guest.”
The reply is instant: “Will do, Mr. McCarren. Chef has prepared a special menu.”
Perfect.
I kill an hour reviewing market data, then scan the news feeds for anything about a missing blonde girl. Nothing yet. What does Tara have on her plate? I know she works at a cafe somewhere, but have no idea where it is or what it’s called.
At 11:15, I head down. Sanctum’s hallways are plush and silent, old money everywhere you look. Every inch is designed to remind you: you’re not like the rest. I pass a sculpture I commissioned from a disgraced artist. He made it out of tech detritus and glass, then shot it with a twelve-gauge. I loved it instantly.
Outside Suite 701, I pause. I listen. Inside, I hear only the faint sound of a shower, water running. I imagine my lush stepsister naked under that spray, droplets racing down her skin, thighs a perfect ivory. My pulse jumps.
I knock, three slow raps.
Tara opens the door a moment later, wrapped in a robe so huge it swallows her frame. Her hair is wet, plastered to her cheeks. There’s a tiny cut on her forehead, butterfly bandage already in place. She looks up at me, cautious but not afraid.
“Hi, Hunter,” she says, soft.
Fuck, even her voice. It kills me.
“Morning,” I say, stepping inside. “You sleep okay?”
She hesitates, clutching the robe tight at her throat. “I think so. I don’t remember much.”
“That’s normal after a concussion,” I tell her. “Sometimes the brain just needs time.”
She nods, then looks around at the suite, the food on the table, the enormous bed still rumpled. “I can’t believe you did all this for me.”
I give her the easy smile I save for investors and frightened little girls. “Of course. I couldn’t just leave you out there. You looked like you needed help.”
She blushes, glancing down. There’s a mole on her neck, just above the collarbone. I remember nipping it, that one night, in a moment of pure hunger. She’d moaned, tilted her head back to give me better access.
But this isn’t Tara. Not really. This is Daisy, and she’s a stranger.
I take her hand, gentle. “You hungry? They’ve got a table for us in the club dining room. It’s quiet, private.”
She nods, then bites her lip, uncertain. “But I don’t have any clothes.”
I want to tell her she’d look good in rags, but I play it cool. “We have a boutique on the fifth floor. I’ll have something sent up.”
She beams, relief flooding her face. “Thank you. I… I really appreciate this.”
