Katia crumpled the damp tissue in her fist and tossed it into the small brass trash can beside the sofa.

She reached for Audrey's half-full martini glass and downed the rest of it.

The gin burned her throat again, but this time, it numbed the sharp edges of her panic.

Audrey watched her, her perfectly arched eyebrows drawing together in a deep frown.

"You're going to make yourself sick," Audrey said, crossing her arms.

"Look, if you want to get back at him, let me call some guys. I have three male models on speed dial who would kill to spend an hour with you."

Audrey pulled out her phone, tapped the screen, and shoved it in front of Katia's face.

Images of chiseled jawlines and eight-pack abs glared brightly in the dim room.

Katia pushed the phone away, her stomach rolling at the thought.

"I don't want a cheap distraction, Audrey."

She rubbed her temples, feeling a massive headache building behind her eyes.

"I feel like I'm covered in mud. I just want to take a scalding hot shower and sleep for twenty-four hours."

"You can't go back to the penthouse," Audrey pointed out. "His stuff is there. You'll just smell his cologne and lose your mind."

Katia fell silent. The muscles in her neck tightened.

Audrey was right. The thought of stepping back into that foyer made her physically nauseous.

"Book me a room," Katia said, her voice steadying. "The most expensive suite in the city."

She unzipped her purse and pulled out a sleek, black credit card.

"And use this. It's the authorized user card Caleb gave me for emergencies, tied to his main account."

Audrey's eyes lit up with malicious glee. A wicked smile spread across her red lips.

"Oh, I love a good revenge charge."

Audrey dialed a number on her phone.

"Corbett Grand Hotel, VIP line," she whispered to Katia, covering the receiver.

Within two minutes, Audrey had leveraged her status as a high-profile club owner to secure the Presidential Suite on the top floor.

She hung up the phone.

"Done. Top floor. Are you absolutely sure you don't want me to send a little room service? A guy who knows how to use his tongue?"

Katia pressed her fingers against her throbbing forehead. "No, Audrey. Just... no."

Katia stood up.

The alcohol hit her bloodstream hard. The floor tilted slightly beneath her feet, and she swayed.

Audrey jumped up and grabbed her elbow. "Whoa. Let me come with you."

Katia shook her head, pulling her arm away. "I need to be alone. I need quiet."

She picked up the black credit card from the table and shoved it into her pocket.

She grabbed her blazer and draped it over her shoulders. The cold, calculating look returned to her eyes.

Audrey sighed and handed her a sleek black keycard a server had just left on the table.

"Room 6002. The car is waiting out front."

Katia took the card, didn't look at the number, and shoved it into the pocket of her blazer.

She pushed the heavy door of the VIP room open.

The deafening bass of the club crashed over her again.

She walked through the corridor. Her steps were slightly heavy, her balance slightly off, but she kept her spine perfectly straight.

The bartender nodded at her as a massive bouncer pushed the heavy front door open for her.

A black Lincoln Town Car idled at the curb.

The driver, wearing a sharp suit, stepped out and opened a large black umbrella, shielding her from the rain.

Katia ducked her head and slid into the plush leather backseat.

The driver slammed the door shut, sealing her in the quiet darkness.

The black Lincoln glided smoothly to a stop in front of the towering glass facade of the Corbett Grand Hotel.

The doorman, dressed in a crisp uniform, pulled the car door open.

Katia swung her legs out. Her heels clicked against the wet pavement as she stepped onto the red carpet.

A blast of cold night air hit her face, mixing with the heavy alcohol in her blood.

Her stomach lurched violently. She swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down her throat.

She straightened her blazer and walked through the revolving doors into the massive, gold-leafed lobby.

The crystal chandeliers cast a blinding light that made her wince and squint her eyes.

The night manager, a man in a tailored suit, spotted her immediately. He saw a high-profile guest entering his lobby and rushed forward, a practiced, accommodating smile on his face.

"Welcome to the Corbett Grand. How may I assist you tonight, ma'am?"

Katia held up a hand, cutting him off. Her eyes were cold. "Don't."

She bypassed the main elevators and walked straight to the end of the hall, swiping her card at the VIP express elevator.

The brass doors parted. She stepped inside.

The doors closed, and the elevator shot upward, the numbers on the digital display blurring as it climbed to the top floor.

On the sixtieth floor, in the sprawling 601 suite, Jackson Kerr ripped his silk tie from his neck.

He had just spent fourteen hours locked in a boardroom, tearing a rival company apart in a hostile takeover.

His muscles were tight, his jaw aching from clenching it all day.

He walked over to the crystal decanter by the floor-to-ceiling window and poured himself three fingers of neat whiskey.

His phone buzzed on the marble counter.

A text from his assistant, Leo: Sent some company to your room. Relax, boss.

Jackson stared at the screen. A muscle feathered in his jaw.

He grabbed the phone and tossed it onto the plush velvet sofa.

He wanted to text back and tell Leo to cancel it, but the exhaustion in his bones made lifting his hands feel like a chore.

He took a sip of the whiskey, letting it burn his throat.

Down the hall, the elevator chimed.

The doors opened. Katia stumbled out.

Her heel caught on the edge of the thick, sound-absorbing carpet, and she pitched forward slightly before catching her balance.

The hallway was dimly lit, the sconces casting long, ambiguous shadows against the walls.

She pulled out the black keycard, trying to focus on the door number Audrey had told her. The hallway lights blurred, making the gold numbers on the heavy wooden doors for 601 and 602 swim together in her alcohol-soaked brain.

She dragged her feet to the heavy oak door on her left. 601. She assumed it was hers.

She pressed the card against the black sensor pad.

A red light flashed. A low beep signaled an error.

Katia groaned. Her patience was entirely gone.

She slapped her palm flat against the heavy wood, ready to turn around and scream at the front desk.

But as her hand hit the wood, the door gave way.

It creaked inward, revealing a two-inch gap.

Room service had dropped off a bucket of ice ten minutes ago and failed to pull the heavy door until it clicked shut.

Katia didn't question it. Her brain was too foggy.

She pushed the door wide open and stepped inside.

She turned around and shoved the door closed with her shoulder. The heavy lock clicked into place with a solid, metallic thud.

The suite was dark. The main lights were off.

The only illumination came from the neon glow of the Manhattan skyline bleeding through the massive windows.

Katia kicked off her heels. They hit the marble floor of the foyer with a clatter.

She didn't care. She walked barefoot onto the thick rug, heading toward the center of the living room.

Jackson heard the noise.

He turned away from the window, the whiskey glass still in his hand. He stepped out of the shadows.

Katia stopped dead in her tracks.

In the dim, blue-tinted light of the city, their eyes locked.

Katia squinted through the darkness.

The alcohol made the room spin slightly. She tried to focus on the massive silhouette of the man standing by the window.

Jackson lowered his whiskey glass. His sharp eyes swept over her.

Her tailored skirt was wrinkled, her silk blouse unbuttoned at the collar, and her hair was a messy tangle from the rain.

She looked ruined, yet dangerously captivating.

Jackson raised a dark eyebrow.

Leo usually sent polished, plastic-looking models. This woman looked like she had just survived a war.

Katia stared at his broad shoulders. Audrey's voice echoed in her foggy brain: I have three male models on speed dial.

A bitter, humorless laugh escaped Katia's throat.

She leaned heavily against the nearest armchair for a moment.

She ignored him completely, walking straight to the wet bar.

She grabbed a crystal glass, filled it with tap water, and drank it down in three massive gulps.

Jackson watched her, a genuine smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He took a slow step forward, the ice clinking in his glass.

"Are you sure you're in the right room, sweetheart?" His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in the quiet room.

Katia turned around. She leaned back against the marble counter.

Her eyes dragged deliberately down his chest, lingering on the two unfastened buttons of his crisp white shirt.

"Audrey really spared no expense," she slurred slightly, her tone dripping with condescension. "You look expensive."

Jackson's smirk vanished.

The muscles in his neck tightened. He was the heir to the Corbett empire, not a piece of meat to be appraised.

His eyes turned ice-cold. He pointed a long finger toward the door.

"Get out. Now."

The command snapped something inside Katia.

All day, men had been telling her what to do, betraying her, lying to her.

A hot wave of pure, unadulterated rage flooded her veins.

She pushed off the counter and closed the distance between them in three quick strides.

Before Jackson could react, she reached up and grabbed the front of his open shirt, yanking him down.

Jackson, caught off guard by the sheer audacity, stumbled forward, his head dipping down to her level.

Katia rose on her toes.

Her breath, hot and smelling of sharp gin, fanned across the skin of his neck.

"You took the money," she hissed, her voice trembling with anger. "Don't play hard to get now."

Jackson's jaw locked.

He hurled his glass toward the far wall; it shattered into a dozen pieces against the baseboard, safely away from the rug.

He reached up, his large hand wrapping around her slender wrist to rip her off him.

But Katia's muscle memory kicked in. Years of judo training took over.

As he pulled her arm, she stepped into his space, dropped her hips, and used his own forward momentum against him.

She twisted, grabbed his lapel, and executed a flawless, brutal shoulder throw.

Jackson's massive frame flipped through the air.

He crashed violently onto the center of the large velvet sofa.

The air was knocked out of his lungs with a heavy grunt.

He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes wide with absolute shock. No one had ever put him on his back.

Katia didn't give him time to recover.

She climbed onto the sofa and straddled his waist.

She pinned his hips down with her knees, her hands pressing hard against his chest.

She looked down at him, her chest heaving, her eyes wild and feral.

Jackson looked up at her.

A hot, violent wave of fury washed over him. The sheer audacity of this woman made his blood boil. And beneath that rage, a darker, more dangerous impulse stirred-the need to not just dominate her, but to completely break her. His competitive nature flared.

In a fraction of a second, his hands shot up.

He gripped her waist, his fingers digging into her sides. With a powerful thrust of his hips, he rolled them over.

The world spun. Katia's back slammed into the soft velvet cushions.

Jackson's heavy body pressed her down, trapping her completely. His chest crushed against hers.

He didn't say a word.

He lowered his head and smashed his mouth against hers.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a punishment. It was a battle for dominance.

Katia's breath hitched.

She didn't push him away.

Instead, she tangled her fingers into his thick, dark hair and pulled him closer, kissing him back with a desperate hunger.