The soft click sound when the room card slides into the lock is the signal.

Gisele stood pressed against the wall, her right hand gripping a heavy belt buckle. Her body was like a taut spring, every muscle screaming in struggle against the drugs.

The lock beeped, a cheerful electronic sound that contrasted sharply with the ugliness of the scene.

Ivy Sterling was about to come in and admire her "masterpiece".

The door began to swing inward. Gisele didn't wait. As soon as the gap widened enough, she acted. Instead of letting Ivy push it open, Gisele used all her strength to pull the door sharply towards herself.

Ivy, who had lost her balance and was looking down at her phone, was completely unprepared. The sudden tug sent her staggering forward, a startled gasp escaping her lips. Her expensive stilettos had caught on the edge of the luxurious carpet, right where Wade Tucker's unconscious body was hidden from her view.

She tripped and fell.

In that chaotic moment of loss of balance, Giselle lunged at her. She threw away the belt, her left hand shot out to cover Ivy's mouth, stifling her scream. Her right arm encircled Ivy's waist, pulling her deeper into the shadows of the room.

Ivy's eyes widened in shock and fear as she met Giselle's gaze. She smelled the sticky, sweet scent of the drug clinging to Giselle's skin, and a flicker of confused dread crossed her face. This wasn't part of the plan.

"Do you like my new perfume?" Giselle's voice was a venomous whisper, burning against Ivy's ear. "You picked it out for me. I think it's only fair if you try it too."

Giselle's grip was terrifyingly strong. Ivy struggled, her neatly manicured nails scratching futilely at Giselle's arm, but it was like fighting a steel trap.

With one last rough shove, Giselle pushed Ivy to the center of the room. Ivy landed softly on the huge bed with a "plop," right next to Wade Tucker's still-breathing body.

Before Ivy could struggle to escape, Giselle grabbed the edge of the heavy down comforter. She yanked it off, covering the two of them, creating a messy, tangled mess under the sheets.

Ivy's muffled screams of anger and fear sounded like heavenly music to her.

But the drug was taking effect. Black spots danced in Giselle's vision. Her knees felt like they were about to give way. She had to get out of there. Now.

She staggered out of the suite, pulling the heavy door shut behind her. The door clicked shut automatically. Inside, Ivy's struggles turned into faint, rapid knocking.

Giselle leaned against the cold, Damask-walled wall of the corridor, panting heavily. Each breath felt like a battle. Her legs trembled uncontrollably.

bite.

The sound of the elevator reaching the end of the corridor was like a gunshot in the quiet space. It must have been a reporter.

A cold, sharp panic finally pierced her drug-blurred consciousness. She couldn't be seen. She couldn't use the elevator.

The only other way out is the fire escape. It's at the other end of the corridor.

She braced herself against the wall, her body screaming in protest. Each step felt like trudging through wet cement. The ornate carpet seemed to stretch for miles. She gripped the wall with one hand, using it to guide herself as her vision blurred and focused, blurred and focused again.

She just needs to go around this corner.

As she rounded the corner of the corridor, her legs finally gave way. She lurched forward, a choked cry caught in her throat, and crashed into something hard and unmoving.

It was a man's chest. The impact jolted her, and the world seemed to tilt violently. The scent of expensive wool, clean, crisp cedar, and a faint hint of tobacco filled her senses. It was a comforting aroma, a stark contrast to the cloying sweetness of the hotel room.

She looked up, her vision blurred. All she could make out was a sharp, defined jawline and the snow-white collar of his shirt. He was very tall.

“Hey, Adrien,” a drawn-out voice came from nearby. “Looks like the welcoming committee is getting a bit more aggressive lately. Is this some kind of new kind of meeting?”

The man she bumped into, Adrian, didn't answer. He simply looked down at her, his expression unreadable. He scrutinized her disheveled appearance, her flushed cheeks, and the confused, unfocused look in her eyes, his brow furrowing slightly. He smelled the scent of medicine on her, a scent that didn't belong here.

However, in that instant of physical contact, Adrian Herbert's soul trembled before his reason.

It wasn't lust, but a strange, almost fatalistic sense of familiarity.

His long, slender fingers clearly touched her warm earlobe, which should have been soft, but because of the calluses on his fingertips, they brushed against the edge of a very subtle bio-adhesive patch used to reshape the ear. Beneath her cheap black-rimmed glasses and heavy makeup, he caught a faint, almost imperceptible, chilling aura belonging to the highest echelons of nobility—a scent he only detected at banquets in ancient European families.

This drugged and disheveled girl is no ordinary bar hostess. Someone is using the most despicable means to destroy a precious soul.

This intense sense of incongruity pierced Adrian's usually incredibly accurate worldview like a poisonous thorn. He was convinced, without reason, that he had to enter this game.

Gisele's mind was screaming. The reporters were coming. She was trapped. This man was her only way out. He was her lifeline.

Instinct took over everything. Her hands, which had been pressed against his chest to steady herself, were now clenched into fists, clutching handfuls of fabric from his expensive suit jacket.

The second man, the one with the drawn-out voice, started to say something else, a sarcastic remark swirling on his tongue. But a cold look from Adrian immediately silenced him.

Adrian's gaze was fixed on Giselle. He could feel the subtle trembling within her body. Her skin, where her hand touched his neck, was burning hot from a fever. This wasn't just a drunken girl seeking pleasure. She was in deep trouble.

Just then, a commotion erupted at the end of the corridor she had just fled from.

“This is the room!” a man shouted.

Several figures, some carrying cameras, rushed around the corner and headed straight for Ivy's suite. They were so focused on their target that they didn't even notice the two men in the alcove and the girl clinging to them.

“Ms. Sterling! We’ve got intelligence that there’s a party here!” one of them shouted, while banging on the door.

A loud, rough knocking echoed down the hallway. The sound struck Giselle like a heavy blow. Her last ounce of strength, her last surge of adrenaline, vanished.

She tilted her head back, forcing her blurry eyes to focus on the man's face. She couldn't make out his features, only a dark and imposing silhouette.

Her voice was hoarse and broken, almost inaudible.

Adrien Hebert's dark eyes narrowed, studying the girl clinging to his suit. Her plea was a ragged whisper, but it landed with the weight of a final, desperate gamble.

His friend, Sean Beaumont, leaned in, his voice a low murmur. "A, walk away. This has 'setup' written all over it. We don't need this kind of trouble."

Adrien ignored him. He looked past the girl's panicked, dilated pupils and saw something else in their depths-a flicker of hard, unyielding resolve that didn't belong with the rest of her terrified demeanor. She was a contradiction. A puzzle.

The unnatural, sweet scent coming off her skin mixed with something else, something uniquely her own, like fresh rain on cool stone. The combination was jarring, and it sparked a flicker of... interest.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The reporters were now trying to shoulder the door open. "Call security! Tell them there's an illegal party! Get the hotel manager!"

At the mention of security and official involvement, Gisele's body went rigid. This couldn't become a police matter. That would complicate everything, expose her in ways she couldn't afford.

She found a final reserve of strength. She pushed herself up slightly, her gaze fixed on the man's shadowed face. "Take me with you," she said, her voice clearer, more direct. "I'll pay you."

A business transaction. Even in this state, that was her instinct.

For the first time, the corner of Adrien's mouth tilted upward in a barely perceptible smirk. Interesting.

"Alright," he said. His voice was a low, resonant baritone that seemed to cut through the noise and chaos.

The word was barely out of his mouth before he moved. One arm slid decisively behind her back, the other under her knees. In a single, smooth motion, he lifted her off the floor.

A small, startled gasp escaped Gisele's lips as her feet left the ground. Her arms instinctively went around his neck, her body curling against his chest for stability. It was solid, warm, and for the first time in hours, she felt a sliver of safety.

Sean Beaumont's jaw dropped. He had known Adrien his entire life. He'd seen him navigate hostile takeovers, stare down federal regulators, and dismantle corporate empires without a flicker of emotion. He had never, not once, seen him so much as offer a woman his arm, let alone sweep one up like this.

Without a backward glance at the media circus, Adrien turned and strode toward a discreet, unmarked door at the end of the alcove-a service corridor. His steps were long and steady, completely untroubled by the weight in his arms.

"Handle the surveillance footage," he commanded Sean over his shoulder, his voice dropping back into its familiar, authoritative tone. "I want tonight scrubbed. From every camera in this hotel. I don't want a single frame of us here to exist by morning."

Sean snapped out of his stupor. "Got it," he said, his own voice now serious. He knew that tone. This wasn't a whim; it was an order.

Nestled in Adrien's arms, Gisele felt the rhythmic, steady beat of his heart against her ear. It was a slow, powerful thrum that grounded her. The drug-induced heat was still raging through her, but she buried her face in the cool wool of his suit, inhaling the clean scent of cedar. It was an anchor in the storm.

They moved through the quiet, sterile corridors of the hotel's back-of-house, a world away from the gilded luxury of the guest areas. The chaos faded behind them.

Outside, in the cool night air, a black Bentley was waiting at the curb, its engine purring softly. The driver, a man with the stoic expression of a palace guard, saw Adrien emerge with a woman in his arms. A flicker of surprise crossed his face before his professional training took over. He was out of the car in an instant, holding the rear door open.

Adrien gently deposited Gisele onto the soft leather of the back seat before sliding in beside her.

"St. Luke's Hospital," he told the driver.

The car pulled away from the curb, gliding silently into the river of New York traffic.

As they disappeared into the night, a man huddled in a darkened doorway across the street cursed his luck. Leo Walsh, a freelance paparazzo, had been tipped that Adrien Hebert was at The Plaza for a meeting. He'd been hoping for a shot of him with some European investor, but the real action-the media swarm at the front entrance-had been impossible to get close to.

He was about to pack it in when he saw it. The car. A custom Bentley Mulsanne, one of maybe five in the entire city. Hebert's car.

He raised his camera, the long telephoto lens already attached. He fired off a burst of shots as the back door opened. The lighting was terrible, the angle was bad, but he captured it: a blurry image of Adrien Hebert, the most private and untouchable man in New York, lifting a woman into his car.

Leo lowered his camera, his heart pounding with excitement. He zoomed in on the digital screen. The girl's face was obscured, lost in shadow and motion, but it didn't matter. The story wasn't her. The story was him. Adrien Hebert had a woman. This was gold.

Inside the silent, moving car, Gisele's consciousness finally gave out. The last of her will dissolved, and she slumped sideways, her head coming to rest against the cool leather of the seat. The fight was over. She was safe, for now.

Adrien watched her, his expression unreadable in the intermittent glow of the streetlights. A stray lock of her ashen hair had fallen across her cheek. He reached out, his fingers brushing it aside. Her skin was still burning hot.

His thumb grazed her cheekbone, and his gaze darkened, becoming more intense, more possessive. He had no idea who she was, but he knew one thing for certain.

She was his to deal with now.