Page 48 of Brutal Heir

The problem was, the rumors about the House of Diamanti didn’t sound like just rumors—at least not to my friends. They said it was one of the worst-kept secrets in the fashion industry: crossing a Diamanti could have deadly consequences.

I didn’t want to believe any of it, but after spending even a short time with Sebastian, I couldn’t deny the truth behind their words.

Even I had noticed my body’s almost primal fear reaction to his presence.

There was something too intense, too imposing, too powerful about the man.

Power and money corrupted. Everyone knew that.

And when you handed that much power and money to someone as handsome and charming as Sebastian Diamanti…I trembled, unable to even complete the thought.

I twisted my fingers into the blanket I clutched to my chest.

I’d known I needed to stay away from him, and yet, somehow, I’d managed to jump out of the frying pan and into the damn fire. How the hell had I gone from avoiding a dinner invitation to waking up in the man’s hotel room? Stupid champagne.

This was so bad.

I slumped onto the edge of the sofa and took a deep breath.

No pants. No shoes. No purse. No phone.

I couldn’t even call a friend on the hotel landline because I didn’t know my own mother’s number by heart, let alone any of my new friends’ numbers in Paris.

The blanket slipped lower. I looked down at my wrinkled shirt in disgust.

What I really needed was a long, hot shower.

Everything wouldn’t seem so bleak after a shower.

And I’d probably have an easier time convincing the hotel front desk clerk to help me if I didn’t look like a whore who had just crawled out of a bottle.

Back in the bedroom, I paused over the neat row of suits in the closet while grabbing a hanger.

Feeling a little silly, I lifted one sleeve to my nose and inhaled. The scent of Sebastian’s cologne clung to the cashmere. There was something strangely intimate about looking at his clothes.

My gaze wandered to the bureau. The temptation to learn whether he wore boxers or briefs aroused my curiosity. He probably wore Calvin Kleins. My imagination went wild: all that tall, olive-skinned muscle in a tight pair of Calvins, which would hug his…

I swallowed.

Shower. I needed a shower—maybe a cold one now.

The bathroom was, of course, over-the-top luxurious: all white marble and glass, with high-end hotel touches like a phone by the toilet, a separate bidet, and multiple gold showerheads.

After steaming my shirt on the hanger in the shower for a few minutes, I hung it on a nearby towel rack and stepped inside.

The hot water was heaven.

It soaked my hair and scalp before running down my back.

I rolled my head, easing the tension in my neck and shoulders. While it had been lovely sleeping in a bed for the first time in two weeks instead of on a mat on the floor, it hadn’t undone all the soreness from the show.

But this shower definitely helped.

It was another luxury. All of us at the flat had to take quick five-minute showers to preserve hot water for the next person.

To just stand and let the powerful jets pound into my skin and unwind me as I soaked in all the steam and heat...I could almost forget the enormous mess I was in.

No. Don’t think about it.