Clare paced anxiously in front of the Grand Imperial Hotel, her mind stuck on what Fiona had said. “He’s loaded,” Fiona had told her. “Agree to just one night, and you can cover your mom’s medical bills.”

Loaded. The bills. Those were exactly what Clare needed.

As she weighed her options, her phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced down: Harleywas calling.

“Clare, where are you?” Harley Powell’s voice came out a little breathless. “I managed to scrape together $2,000. Are you at the hospital? I’ll bring it over right now.”

Clare felt tears threaten to spill over. Harley was her high school buddy. After graduation, Harley had gone off to college, while Clare, because of her family’s situation, had gone straight to work. Her mom had cried for days, convinced she had held Clare back.

Harley’s family wasn’t rich either, and for a recent graduate, money was tight. Clare sucked in a deep breath and forced a casual tone. “Harley, I’m at my uncle’s place. Don’t worry about the money—he already handled it. Oh… he’s calling me for dinner. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

Before Harley could respond, Clare hung up, afraid she’d fall apart if she stayed on the line.

She let out a bitter laugh. There was no uncle, no money. After Clare’s mom chose to have her outside of marriage, her family had long since disowned her, writing her off as a lost cause.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, Clare steeled herself. She loosened her grip, her fingers pale from clutching the phone too hard, and walked into the hotel with grim determination.

Room 936. Before she could lose her nerve, Clare forced herself to knock.

The door swung open, and the smell of whiskey hit her full in the face. She stumbled forward—straight into a man’s arms—her phone slipping from her grasp…

Panicking, Clare flailed, trying to shove him away, but he held her tight. She mumbled desperately, “Please… let me go!”

“Isn’t this what you wanted, sweetheart?”

The man's grip tightened around her throat, his voice a cold hiss against her ear. “Enough with the act...”

Clare gasped for air. The room was drowning in darkness, so she couldn’t make out his face, but the ice in his voice slid down her spine.

When his lips brushed against hers, it hit her like lightning.

She couldn’t hold it in any longer. A panicked cry tore out of her, shame crashing over her in waves. She wanted to fight, to get away, but reality held her down: this man had money, and money could pay for her mother’s medical bills.

Clare felt herself drifting further and further from her own body...

“No...”

“Oh, in a hurry now?” the man sneered, the faint light from outside just catching her face.

Just then, her phone rang. Fear ripped through her—was something wrong with her mother? The fog cleared, and she reached to answer, but he was faster. He snatched the phone and hurled it against the wall with a sharp crack, plunging the room back into silence.

“You had no right to break my phone!” She sat up, glaring at the shattered pieces scattered on the floor, her voice shaking with fury.

He moved in, pinning her against the wall. Panic spiked, and Clare shoved at him, but his arms locked her in place...

As dawn's first pale light slipped through the curtains, Clare woke up aching, every tiny movement making her wince. The man beside her was still asleep. He was almost unfairly handsome—thick brows, a sharply cut nose—but even in sleep, his forehead was creased with tension.

She couldn't remember when she'd finally drifted off, but the sudden panic to find her phone snapped her into action. It lay shattered on the floor, and she scrambled to gather the pieces, praying her mother hadn't called. Soon, she'd have the money for her mom's surgery. Soon, things would finally get better.

The second she powered it on, her phone exploded with missed calls and messages—over thirty missed calls and more than twenty texts, all from Fiona Lang, demanding to know where she was. But the last message made her stomach drop: "Where were you last night? You left Mr. Lewis waiting all night!"

Left waiting all night?

Clare glanced back at the man in the bed. Had she gone to the wrong room? Panic clawed at her chest as she spotted the room key on the table. The number 836 was engraved right there. She'd been such a nervous wreck last night, she'd walked straight into the wrong room. Worst mistake ever.

How the hell was she supposed to explain this when he woke up? Sorry, I accidentally walked into the wrong room?

Moving quickly, she pulled on the man's shirt. Her own clothes were way too torn up to wear after the wild night before. Keeping one eye on the bed to make sure he was still asleep, she stuffed the cash from the table into her bag. Wrong room or not, after everything that had happened, she figured she'd earned it. Before leaving, she scribbled a note on a piece of paper from the nightstand: "Service fee collected!"

When Lucien Bradley woke, Clare was already gone. He picked up the note she'd left behind. Service fee collected! His eyes slid to the now-empty nightstand, and a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face. Did she really think she could just walk away like that?

He checked the time. Crap. He had a meeting this morning. After a quick shower, he ordered a fresh suit from the hotel lobby. Just before heading out, something on the floor caught his eye—a phone case. He picked it up. A cheerful, round-faced girl with dimples smiled back at him from the attached photo. The man chuckled under his breath.

"So that's who you are," he murmured. "You're mine now."