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She deserves the truth—or at least a path toward it.

I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out the matte-black pen I use at the office. Rhodes, Mercer & Vance is engraved along the barrel in small, precise letters. It's distinctive. Recognizable.

And if she sees it, she'll know.

I set it on the writing desk beside a note I write on hotel stationery.

Ivy—

I meant what I said. You deserve to be wanted. You deserve to be cherished.

I hope this isn't the last time.

—V

I look at the pen for a long moment, weighing the consequences.

If she finds it and recognizes the name, she'll put the pieces together. She'll realize that Vanguard is someone she knows. Someone in her life.

She might be angry. She might feel betrayed. She might walk away and never speak to me again.

But she might also understand. She might see that I've been trying to protect her, to give her space to choose without the weight of our professional relationship pressing down on her.

And if she confronts me, at least we'll be having an honest conversation instead of hiding behind masks.

I leave the pen where it is.

Then I look at Megan one more time, memorizing the way she looks in sleep—peaceful, beautiful, trusting.

And I leave before I can change my mind.

Chapter Eight

MEGAN

The morning light cuts through the heavy draperies of Suite 1204 in sharp, pale beams. My body aches in places that make my skin heat just acknowledging them—the deep soreness along my inner thighs, the faint impression of leather around my wrists, and the lingering weight of a commanding man who held me down and made me come until I was breathless.

I sit on the edge of the mattress, the sheet pulled to my chest. Vanguard is already gone, slipped out before sunrise just like the first time.

I stand on unsteady legs, wrapping the linen around myself, and walk over to the writing desk to collect my purse.

That's when I see it.

Resting in the center of the leather blotter, beside a folded piece of hotel stationery, is a heavy matte-black rollerball pen with gunmetal trim.

I pick it up. The cool metal has weight in my palm, solid and expensive. And along the barrel, laser-engraved in crisp serif lettering, is a single line.

Rhodes, Mercer & Vance, Attorneys at Law.

The breath catches in my throat.

Rhodes, Mercer & Vance.

Brock Rhodes's firm. The firm listed on Kayla's emergency contact card inside my desk at school.

My pulse hammers against my ribs. "No," I whisper into the quiet suite. "It can't be."

I try to force logic onto it. The Grand Sovereign is four blocks from the financial district. Prominent attorneys and corporate clients stay here every day; promotional pens get handed out at conferences and left on lobby counters.