Chapter 2

Adrianna's POV

My eyes fluttered open to a blur of gold and cream decorations around the room I was in.

For a moment, I thought I was still dreaming. The bed beneath me was far too soft, the silk sheets far too smooth against my skin. The faint smell of expensive cologne lingered in the air, masculine, and nothing like the scent Grant wore.

I shifted under the covers, wincing when a dull ache radiated through my hips and thighs. My skin felt sensitive, my mouth dry. Fragments of last night flickered in my mind, my sister's tight smile, the liquor, the way my body had burned from the inside out, and the man in the bed whose touch had been... overwhelming.

Grant. It had to be Grant.

I licked my lips, trying to find my voice. "Grant?"

For a moment, silence answered me. Then...

"Grant?" I tried again, this time with a tentative laugh.

A deep, unfamiliar voice cut through the air. "Try again."

I froze.

That voice... it was rich, smooth, and utterly cold, carrying a weight that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I pushed myself up on my elbows, clutching the sheets to my chest as if they could shield me from the sudden tightness in my chest.

The bathroom door opened, and my breath caught.

It wasn't Grant.

The man who stepped out was tall, impossibly tall, with broad shoulders that filled the doorway. A towel was slung low around his hips, droplets of water sliding down sculpted abs and disappearing beneath the piece of cloth. His skin was warm-toned, his hair damp and slightly tousled, as if he had just stepped out of the shower.

But it was his face that rooted me to the spot. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw dusted with stubble, and eyes... God, those eyes. Dark, piercing, and colder than winter rain.

Recognition struck me like a slap.

Xavier Palmer.

I've seen him before, on magazine covers, in glossy business spreads, in whispered gossip over champagne. Billionaire hotel magnate. Untouchable. Dangerous, if the rumors were to be believed.

"What..." My voice wavered. "What are you doing here?"

His gaze swept over me, slow and deliberate, starting from my messy hair down to where the silk clung to my bare skin. There was no softness in his expression... only calculation, as though I were a puzzle he had no patience for.

"I think," he said, his tone clipped, "the question is what you're doing here."

My stomach flipped. "I... I was with Grant last night. We... I thought..."

"You thought wrong."

The words landed like ice water, snapping me out of the haze. My hands gripped the sheet tighter. "Wait... what do you mean? Where's Grant?"

Xavier's jaw tightened, and he took a step into the room, closing the distance between us. Even with the towel wrapped around him, he carried himself with the kind of confidence that made the air feel thinner.

"I have never met your Grant," he said flatly. "And before you ask, no, I don't make a habit of waking up with strange women in my bed."

Heat rushed to my cheeks, part humiliation, part defensiveness. "Strange women? I didn't plan this! My sister... she gave me something to drink... and she told me..."

His brow arched, the only sign he was even listening. "Your sister brought you here?"

"Yes... I mean, no... I don't know!" My thoughts were a jumble, my pulse pounding in my ears. "All I remember is the club, then the drink, then..."

I trailed off, unable to finish. Images from that night slipped into my mind uninvited, his hands, his mouth, the heat of his body pressed against mine. Only now, in the clear light of morning, those moments felt less like desire and more like a wildfire I stumbled into blindfolded.

Xavier's gaze sharpened. "You were drugged?"

"I..." I swallowed. "I think so. I felt... different. Not myself. But I swear, I thought you were Grant."

That earned me a dry, humorless chuckle. "You confuse me with your boyfriend? That's rich."

My spine stiffened. "It was dark. And I wasn't exactly... in my right mind."

His eyes narrowed slightly, and for a heartbeat, I thought I saw something flicker in them, doubt, maybe, or something darker. But it was gone as quickly as it came.

"You expect me to believe this was an accident?" he asked, voice dropping lower, each word deliberate.

"I'm telling you the truth," I insisted, my voice breaking on the last word. "Why would I lie?"

He stopped at the edge of the bed, towering over me. I could see every detail of his face now, the hard set of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Up close, he was even more intimidating.

"Because," he said slowly, his gaze locking onto mine, "people lie to me all the time. They use me. They set me up. And somehow, they always think I won't notice."

The words settled heavily between us.

My pulse spiked. "I'm not..."

"You're telling me," he interrupted, "that you just happened to end up in my bed, naked, after being conveniently drugged by your sister, and it's all just a big misunderstanding?"

I swallowed hard. "Yes."

His lips curved, not into a smile, but into something far more dangerous.

"I don't believe in coincidences, Adrianna."

Hearing my name from his mouth made my skin prickle. "How do you even know my name?"

He leaned in slightly, his voice a low rumble. "Because if someone goes to this much trouble to drop a stranger into my bed... I make it my business to find out who she is."

The room suddenly felt too small. My instincts screamed at me to get up, to put distance between us, but my body refused to move.

"What do you want from me?" I whispered.

His eyes stayed locked on mine, cold and unblinking.

"I want to know," he said, each word like a blade, "exactly how much of last night was your idea... and how much of it was part of the setup."

Heat rushed to my face. I clutched the fabric tighter, curling my legs beneath me, but his expression didn't shift, still hard, still unreadable. Somehow, the lack of warmth in his eyes made me feel more exposed than my bare skin ever could.

Without letting me talk, "Get dressed," he said at last, the words clipped, like commands he expected to be followed without question.

I blinked at him. "What?"

"You heard me." He took a step back toward the wardrobe, opened it with a controlled flick of his wrist, and pulled out a crisp white shirt. He tossed it on the bed, the faint scent of his cologne clinging to it. "Put that on and leave."

My pulse spiked. "Wait... you don't understand. I don't even know how I got here..."

"I don't care." His voice was as cold as the floor under my bare feet. "I'm not interested in your excuses, your story, or whatever reason you think justifies this. You have two minutes."

Anger flickered inside me, battling my panic attack. "You think I planned this?"

He gave a slow, almost lazy shrug. "If you didn't, then whoever sent you did. Either way, you're in my bed, which means you're a problem."

My fingers trembled as I reached for the shirt, yanking it over my head. It was far too big, hanging loose around my thighs, but it was better than sitting there naked under his scrutiny. My clothes from last night were folded neatly on a chair, another detail that made my stomach twist.

I dressed quickly, keeping my eyes on the floor.

When I finally straightened, he was still watching me, arms crossed over his bare chest, towel still low on his hips.

"I didn't ask for this," I said quietly.

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought I saw something flicker there, doubt, maybe, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "That's your problem," he said, his tone final.

I slipped past him. My hand had just closed around the handle when his voice stopped me cold. "Tell your friends they failed." The words were low, dangerous, each one filled with warning.

"And if I see you again..." His gaze raked all over my body again. "You won't walk away."

A chill ran down my spine, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

Chapter 3

Xavier's POV

The first rule of survival in my world: trust no one.

The second: especially not beautiful women who appear in your bed after you've been drugged.

Weeks later, I sat in my office two floors below the suite, my head still throbbed faintly, a reminder of the poison, or whatever the hell it was, someone had slipped into my drink that night.

The knock came sharply against the door.

"Come in," I called, my voice still hoarse from too little sleep and too much anger.

Ethan Mercer, my head of security, stepped inside. Built like a wall, ex-military, the man didn't waste words or time. He carried a tablet under one arm.

"You have something for me?" I asked.

He nodded once and moved to the edge of my desk, laying the tablet flat. The screen lit up with the grainy footage from the hotel's security feed from that night.

"This is from the club floor," Ethan said. "Timeline starts twenty minutes before you were escorted back to your suite."

I leaned forward, scanning the scene. There I was, at the VIP table, shaking hands with three men in tailored suits. They had approached me earlier under the guise of wanting to discuss a hotel investment.

"Pause," I ordered. Ethan froze the frame.

Even on camera, I could see it, the slight flicker of a smile from the man on my right as I lifted my glass. It was too knowing. Too smug.

"That's when they spiked it," I muttered.

Ethan resumed the video. A few minutes later, I stood, my movements already sluggish, and one of my staff subtly guided me out of frame.

The footage switched to a hallway camera. Two security guards led me toward the private elevator. My stride was uneven. My jaw clenched as I watched, I hated being reminded of weakness.

"Next," I said.

The angle changed again, this time, the corridor outside my suite. A timestamp in the corner read 01:37 AM.

And there she was.

Adrianna. She appeared from the far end of the hall, one hand against the wall as if steadying herself. She was still in that night's dress, hair slightly mussed, her walk hesitant.

Ethan's finger tapped the screen. "That's thirty minutes after you entered your suite. She comes alone."

"Alone?" I repeated, my voice edged with disbelief. "No sign of her with them?"

He shook his head. "I cross checked the club floor footage. She wasn't at their table, didn't speak to them, didn't even cross paths."

I frowned, studying the screen. Adrianna reached my door, hesitated for several seconds, then slipped inside. No one else followed.

"Rewind," I said. Ethan complied. I watched her approach again, frame by frame. Her steps were unsteady, almost clumsy. Not the stride of someone on a mission.

"She looks... off," Ethan commented, his tone carefully neutral. "Eyes a little unfocused. Could be drunk. Could be something else."

I leaned back in my chair, my gaze narrowing. "She said her sister gave her a drink."

"And do you believe that?"

My first instinct was to say no. Women like her didn't just stumble into situations, they were placed there. I had been in enough power games to know the tactic: tempt the mark when he's most vulnerable, then collect the fallout.

But there was something about the footage that didn't match the script.

Ethan switched to another angle, the one inside the suite's living area. The camera caught her stepping in, glancing around like she didn't recognize where she was. She clutched her bag tightly, shoulders drawn in.

"You see that?" Ethan said. "She's not scanning the room for cameras, she's not looking for valuables. She's... lost."

I didn't answer immediately.

Instead, I watched the moment she disappeared toward the bedroom, towards me.

Ethan cleared his throat. "We've already ID'd the three men from the club. Two have criminal records for fraud and extortion. One's clean on paper, but I'll bet my pension he's dirtier than both. Adrianna..." He tapped another file on the tablet. "She's clean. No priors, no debt flags, no history with any of the men involved."

"That proves nothing," I said, though my voice lacked its earlier conviction. "She could still be working for someone."

"She could," Ethan agreed. "But so far, there's nothing tying her to that night except being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

I stared at the paused frame of her on the screen, frozen mid-step, hair falling into her face, one hand brushing the doorframe like she was steadying herself.

I remembered the way she looked at me the following morning. Wide eyed. Defiant. And something else I tried to ignore, confused.

"Sir," Ethan said, breaking my thoughts, "if she was part of the plan, she's either the best actress I've ever seen... or she's telling the truth."

I didn't answer.

Because since I had woken up with her in my bed, I wasn't entirely sure which it was.

***

I didn't take my eyes off the frozen frame of her on the screen. In my world, innocence was a myth. Everyone wanted something.

And I had seen this play before... different actors, same ending.

"Ethan," I said, leaning back in my chair, "this wouldn't be the first time someone's tried to get to me in a bed instead of a boardroom."

His brow lifted slightly.

I went on, my voice low. "Five years ago, it was a call girl with a hidden camera. Two years after that, a journalist pretending to be a PR consultant. Both walked in smiling. Both walked out thinking they'd won."

"They didn't," Ethan said, more statement than question.

"They didn't." My tone was flat steel. "One lost her job. The other... doesn't write anymore."

Ethan didn't flinch. He has heard worse from me.

The truth was, enemies came in every form, rival hotel chains, politicians I wouldn't bribe, even disgruntled ex-associates who thought they could bury me with scandal. They had all tried. And they had all learned the same lesson: Xavier Palmer doesn't break.

But still...

I tapped a knuckle against the desk, my gaze cutting back to Adrianna's still frame. "This one is different. Either she's the most convincing plant I've seen, or she's just collateral damage. I'm not gambling on either possibility."

Ethan straightened. "What do you want done?"

"Everything," I said. "I want every piece of her life on my desk, where she grew up, who she talks to, where she's worked, who she's dated. Bank accounts. Travel history. The last coffee shop she set foot in, if you can find it."

"You think she's connected to the three men?"

"I think..." I exhaled slowly, "...if she isn't, then someone went to a lot of trouble to make her look like she is. Which means either she's a pawn... or she's bait."

Ethan nodded once. "Understood."

"Also," I added, my tone sharpening, "find out everything about this sister she mentioned. Amelia. If Adrianna's telling the truth, Amelia handed her the drink. That's not a coincidence."

"Already working on it."

"Good." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk. "And Ethan?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Discretion. I don't want this hitting the press. If anyone finds out I was drugged in my own club, it's an open invitation for every vulture in this city to circle."

"You'll have what you need by tonight."

I gave him a brief nod. "Go."

He left without another word, the door shutting softly behind him.

The club was supposed to be my territory. Instead, I had woken up in my own suite with a stranger in my bed and a drug burning through my veins.

It wasn't just an attack. It was a message.

By the time the sky began to darken, I had gone over the footage three more times, looking for details Ethan might have missed, a shadow in the corner, a face that lingered too long, a handoff that looked casual until you slowed it down. Nothing linked her directly to the men who had spiked my drink.

That irritated me more than finding proof would have.

She was still an unknown. And I hated unknowns.

At precisely nine o'clock, a sharp knock broke my thoughts.

"Enter," I called.

Ethan stepped inside, holding a slim black file. His expression was unreadable, but I worked with him long enough to recognize the shift in his posture, a slight stiffness that meant he had found something worth my attention.

He crossed the room and placed the file on my desk.

"Sir..." His voice was quieter than usual. "You'll want to see this."

Chapter 4

Adrianna's POV

(6 weeks after that night)

The first thing I heard was a steady, rhythmic beeping. When I pried my eyes open, the white ceiling told me everything I needed to know.

Hospital.

I tried to sit up, but a gentle hand pressed my shoulder back down. "Easy there," a soft voice said. I turned my head to see a nurse, her kind eyes framed by a navy blue hijab. "You gave everyone a scare. You collapsed at work."

Work. Oh God. My mind scrambled through the haze. One second I had been restocking files behind the reception desk at the design firm, the next the room had tilted like a Ferris wheel ride. Then... black.

The nurse adjusted the IV line taped to my arm. "You've been having fainting spells, yes?"

I frowned. "I... I've been dizzy. But I thought it was just exhaustion."

"Well, exhaustion doesn't usually drop you to the floor without warning," she said lightly, though her gaze was assessing. "The doctor will want to run some tests."

I opened my mouth to respond, only to hear a voice that made my stomach drop.

"Well, well," Amelia drawled, her silhouette filling the doorway like a shadow you couldn't shake. "If it isn't my delicate little sister, living up to her flair for drama."

The nurse glanced between us, clearly picking up on the shift in temperature. "Family?"

"Yes," Amelia said before I could answer, pasting on a sugary smile. "I'm her older sister. I rushed over as soon as I heard."

I wanted to laugh. The performance was flawless. Concern in her voice, pity in her eyes, anyone who didn't know her would think she had left a charity gala to come cradle me back to health.

I forced my voice to stay even. "You didn't have to come."

"Oh, but I did." She stepped inside, heels clicking against the linoleum, designer handbag swinging on her arm. "Someone has to make sure you're not spending your nights... unwisely."

My jaw clenched. The nurse busied herself with checking the monitors, but her ears were clearly working.

"Amelia," I warned.

"What?" She perched delicately on the visitor's chair, crossing her legs with all the grace of someone sitting for a Vogue shoot. "I'm just saying, if you keep having... wild nights, you're bound to end up in places like this. Or worse."

I could feel my pulse picking up, not from illness, but from the slow boil of anger rising under my skin.

"That's rich," I shot back, my voice sharp enough to make the nurse glance up in surprise. "You hand me a drink, disappear without a word, and now you want to play Florence Nightingale?"

Her smirk faltered for half a second. "You're upset. I understand. But I..."

"No," I cut her off, struggling to sit up despite the nurse's attempt to steady me. "You don't get to come in here and pretend to care. You've always treated me like a prop in your little game. I'm not playing anymore. Leave."

Amelia's eyes, the same shade as mine, narrowed just slightly, an unspoken reminder that she didn't like being told what to do.

But then her smile returned, cool and practiced. "Fine. Rest up, darling. We'll talk soon." She stood, leaned over to brush an unnecessary kiss against my cheek, and whispered so low only I could hear, "You'll regret speaking to me like that."

Then she was gone. I exhaled slowly, my hands trembling. The nurse gave me a small, approving nod. "Good for you."

I almost smiled. Almost.

A few minutes later, the door opened again, this time to a tall man in a white coat, glasses perched low on his nose. "Miss Adrianna?" he asked.

"That's me."

He gave the nurse a nod, and she slipped out quietly, leaving us alone.

The doctor stepped closer to my bed, flipping through a chart. "I've reviewed your vitals and some preliminary test results. I would like to discuss them with you privately."

A faint unease curled in my stomach. "Alright... is it serious?"

He hesitated, not a pause to gather words, but the kind of silence that told me whatever was coming would rearrange my entire world.

Finally, he looked up from the chart, meeting my eyes.

"Miss Adrianna," he said carefully, "you're pregnant."

Pregnant.

The word hit me like a slap, sharp, stinging, leaving me stunned beyond reasoning. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I could only stare at the doctor, my mind scrambling for an explanation that didn't exist.

"There must be a mistake," I finally whispered. "That's not... possible."

His expression was gentle, but unyielding. "The tests are accurate, Miss Adrianna. You're about five to six weeks along."

Five to six weeks. The number seemed to echo in my skull. I gripped the thin hospital blanket tighter, trying to remember every detail of the past month, every night, every...

I pressed a hand to my stomach instinctively, not protectively, but in disbelief, as if I could somehow feel the truth or disprove it just by touching.

The doctor hesitated. "I know this is a lot to process. We'll need to run more tests to make sure both you and the baby are healthy. Is there someone you would like me to call?"

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to speak. "No. I..."

The door swung open with a force that startled even the doctor.

A tall figure filled the doorway, the kind of presence that commanded attention before a single word was spoken. His black suit stretched across broad shoulders, his steps deliberate, as though he owned the ground beneath him.

And then his eyes, dark and intense, found me.

The air shifted instantly, heavy and charged. The steady beeping of the heart monitor seemed too loud in the silence that followed.

It's him.

Xavier.

He closed the distance between us in three long strides, the room suddenly feeling much smaller. The doctor stepped back instinctively, looking from me to him as if uncertain whether to intervene.

Xavier's gaze flicked briefly to my hand, still pressed against my stomach, then returned to my face.

"Why are you here?" I managed, my voice shaky but defiant.

He didn't answer my question. Instead, his lips curved, not in a smile, but in something colder. "Five to six weeks?"

The doctor cleared his throat awkwardly. "Sir, I'm not sure..."

Xavier didn't even look at him. His attention was locked on me, his voice dropping low enough to make my skin prickle.

"That child..." He paused, as if making sure I heard every word. "It's mine."

The room went silent. The doctor stared at him, wide-eyed. I stared too with a blank mind, my heart pounding, because I had no idea what terrified me more.

The fact that I might be pregnant.

Or the fact that Xavier sounded absolutely certain it belonged to him.