Page 77 of Brutal Heir

I stepped inside, my blood simmering as I took in the cramped, dingy space. It wasn’t so much a flat as an open basement room.

This was how she’d been living in Paris? Unacceptable.

A thin countertop with a hot plate and a miniature refrigerator masqueraded as a kitchen. A makeshift, sectioned-off corner might have been a bathroom. Narrow mattresses littered the floor—at least eight by my count.

Sabrina knelt on one of them, shoving clothes into an open suitcase. She froze when she saw me then scowled as her gaze darted behind me.

“You’re going to pay for that door! I won’t have my roommates fined.”

Without waiting for my response, she resumed her packing, muttering about arrogant, egotistical men.

Leaning against the wall, I crossed my arms and watched her.

She looked utterly captivating when she was furious. Her blue eyes sparked with anger, her cheeks flushing a deep, vibrant pink that only enhanced her beauty.

She slammed the suitcase lid down and wrestled with the zipper. “Just tell me why.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why what?”

Her eyes misted. “Why did you do it? Why did you get me fired?”

Pushing off the wall, I took a step toward her, then I stopped. My hand instinctively reached out before I curled it into a fist and let it drop.

She stood, her voice rising with every word. “Do you have any idea how hard I worked for that job offer? The mood boards, the concept development, the brand alignments. I took a pay cut to work like a dog at that fashion show, all for a chance to prove what I could do.”

Her anger was justified; nothing I could say would change that.

She began pacing the small room, stepping around the scattered mattresses. “And it was all for nothing. Nothing.”

“Are you forgetting my offer?”

She whipped off her Prada hoodie, revealing lace-covered breasts. I could still feel the press of her nipple against my palm.

“How could I forget?” she snapped, throwing the hoodie at my head. “It’s the reason I’m in this mess!”

She grabbed a white T-shirt from the floor and pulled it over her head. “I still can’t wrap my mind around any of this.”

Kicking off her sweatpants, she exposed long, slender legs that I’d already imagined wrapped around my waist. Later.

She shook out a pair of wide-leg jeans and stepped into them with forceful determination. “This is the most screwed-up one-night stand in history. It’s like Fatal Attraction but in reverse.”

Her words stung.

“If it helps,” I said dryly, “I have no intention of killing your pets.”

“This isn’t funny. Nothing about this is funny,” she snapped, pointing a finger at me.

Raising my hands in surrender, I conceded. “You’re right.”

She slipped on a pair of black platform loafers, practical but elegant. At least she wouldn’t break an ankle storming off.

Then she shrugged into a navy blue, double-breasted blazer and pushed up the sleeves before rummaging in her purse for silver bangles. As she slipped them onto her wrist, she glared at me.

“You offered me a job, and I very clearly said no. That should have been the end of it. But no, you had to call Édouard and ruin everything.”

I rubbed my jaw. “Your suspicious mind always assumes the worst. Have you considered that I merely informed him of my competing offer?”

She squared off in front of me, her arms crossed. “Is that what happened?”