"What do you mean you don't have our reservations?"

Damian’s voice dropped low enough to make the front desk manager visibly flinch.

The brass chandeliers of the Chicago hotel lobby cast sharp shadows across the marble floor. Outside, freezing rain pelted against the revolving doors.

"Mr. Cross, I deeply apologize," the manager stammered, tapping frantically at his terminal. "A system error during the biotech conference rush doubled our block. We have only two bookings available under your corporate account. The Presidential Suite on the penthouse level, and a standard two-bedroom suite on the fourteenth floor."

"Fix it," Damian said flatly. "Clear a floor."

"We can't, sir. Every hotel within eight miles is booked solid for the summit."

Luca rested both elbows on the polished mahogany counter, tilting his head with an amused gleam in his dark eyes. "Well, that simplifies our evening, doesn't it? The penthouse has a massive master bed. We can share, Nora."

"I would rather sleep on the lobby couch wrapped in a coat," I said, stepping between him and the counter. "Give me a keycard to whatever broom closet you have left. I am not sharing a room with any of you."

"You are not sleeping in an open lobby," Damian barked, turning to face me. "Don't be absurd."

"Try stopping me," I replied, crossing my arms. "I'll sit in that leather armchair by the fireplace until dawn. At least the concierge won't corner me against the headboard."

Luca chuckled softly, but the laughter died the moment Damian took a heavy step toward me.

"Nora—" Damian started.

"Step back, Damian," Adrian’s quiet voice sliced through the tension.

Adrian slid a black titanium card across the marble counter toward the trembling manager. He hadn't raised his voice once, yet the manager froze, staring at him.

"Hand over both keys," Adrian instructed calmly.

The manager scrambled to encode two sets of RFID cards. "Right away, Mr. Cross."

Adrian picked up the first card—the gold-trimmed penthouse pass—and turned to me. He extended it between two fingers, his hazel eyes holding mine without a trace of mockery.

"The Presidential Suite has private elevator access, reinforced locks, and an unlisted direct line," Adrian said. "Take it. You stay there alone."

Luca whipped around, staring at his younger brother. "Excuse me? You're putting her on the top floor by herself?"

"She needs to sleep without three Alphas breathing down her neck," Adrian answered, never breaking eye contact with me. "Take the key, Nora."

Damian frowned, his silver eyes flashing with sharp disapproval. "Adrian, leaving her completely unmonitored in a strange city—"

"She isn't our prisoner," Adrian snapped, his tone hardening. "And you nearly broke the plane in half five hours ago. We take the two-bedroom on fourteen. All three of us."

Luca let out a sharp scoff. "Are you insane? Three grown Alphas in a two-bedroom standard? Two of us have to share a room."

"Then you can take the floor," Adrian said. He pushed the gold card into my hand.

The plastic felt warm from his fingertips. A faint trace of rain and crushed sage brushed against my senses, steady and calm.

"Go up," Adrian told me softly. "Lock the deadbolt behind you. Breakfast is at eight in the private dining room downstairs."

I stared at the gold card in my palm, then glanced up at Damian and Luca. Damian’s jaw was set like granite, clearly hating every syllable of the arrangement, but he didn't countermand Adrian's order. Luca looked like he had just been forced to swallow vinegar.

"Fine," I said, pocketing the card. "Don't knock on my door."

I turned on my heel, grabbed my roller bag, and headed straight for the private elevator bank before any of them could change their minds.

***

The quiet of the Presidential Suite had been a relief, but exhaustion still dragged at my limbs when I stepped off the elevator the following morning.

The private dining room on the mezzanine was almost deserted at eight o'clock. Silver chafing dishes gleamed beneath recessed lights, and the faint smell of roasted coffee beans drifted through the air.

At the far corner table by the window sat the three brothers.

I paused just inside the doorway, observing them before they noticed me.

The sight was completely unexpected.

Luca sat slouched in an armchair, dark purple circles bruising the skin under his eyes. His collar was rumpled, his hair unstyled, and his fingers gripped a double espresso like it was a survival tool.

Across from him, Damian sat rigidly upright in a crisp charcoal suit, reading the Financial Times on a tablet, looking like an immovable statue.

Adrian sat on the bench beside them, nursing a cup of black coffee with a faint, amused smirk playing on his lips.

"I am never traveling with you again," Luca croaked, slamming his tiny porcelain cup down onto the saucer. "Never. In thirty years, I have never experienced psychological warfare like last night."

Damian didn't look up from his screen. "Drink your coffee and shut up, Luca."

"You vibrated the drywall!" Luca hissed, leaning across the linen tablecloth. "The headboard hit the plaster every four seconds! I had to pull a pillow over my face, and I could still hear you sawing through oak trees!"

"I do not snore," Damian said, his voice flat, icy, and utterly indifferent.

"You sound like a diesel generator running out of oil," Luca shot back, running a hand down his tired face. "Adrian, tell him. Tell this stubborn block of concrete what he did to our eardrums."

Damian finally lowered his tablet, fixing Adrian with a cold, warning glare. "Adrian."

Adrian took a slow sip of his black coffee. He set the mug down without making a sound, glanced at Damian's stony expression, and spoke two words:

"You do."

Luca threw his hands in the air. "Thank you! He does! You had the king suite, Adrian slept on the tiny living room sofa, and I was trapped in the adjoining room listening to you rattle the light fixtures!"

"You're both exaggerating," Damian muttered, his cheek twitching slightly as he lifted his cup.

"I recorded six minutes of audio on my phone," Adrian added mildly, tapping his breast pocket. "Would you like me to play it through the speaker system?"

Damian’s jaw tightened so hard I could hear his teeth click from ten feet away. "Delete it."

"Make me," Adrian murmured, leaning back with a dry, wicked glint in his eye.

A short, breathy sound escaped my throat before I could choke it back.

I couldn't help it.

The sheer absurdity of the moment shattered the heavy armor I had worn since yesterday morning. These were the Cross brothers—predators of Wall Street, ruthless corporate raiders who destroyed multinational conglomerates before breakfast. And here they were, bickering over bad sleep and loud breathing like miserable college roommates stuffed into a dorm.

The corners of my lips curved upward. A soft, genuine smile broke across my face, accompanied by a quiet chuckle that slipped out into the still air of the dining room.

The instant the sound left my lips, the bickering stopped dead.

All three brothers froze simultaneously.

Luca’s hand stopped mid-air. Adrian went perfectly still. Damian slowly turned his head away from his tablet, his silver eyes locking onto me.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

None of them moved. None of them blinked.

Luca stared at me with his mouth slightly parted, the exhaustion completely wiped from his features, replaced by a raw, stunned stillness. Adrian’s fingers tightened on the edge of the table, his hazel gaze darkening with an intensity that made the hair on my arms stand up. And Damian—tall, brutal, untouchable Damian—stared directly at my face, his broad chest rising and falling in one shallow shudder.

Then I noticed it.

The rims of their eyes had flushed a faint, distinct red.

It wasn't fury. It wasn't the violent territorial claim from the airplane. It was something raw, exposed, and deeply shaken, as if seeing me smile had struck them directly between the ribs with the force of a sledgehammer.

My breath trapped in my throat.

My smile vanished instantly, my walls slamming back into place with a sickening thud.

I took a half-step backward toward the doorway, clutching my leather portfolio against my stomach like a shield.

"Sit down, Nora," Damian said.

His voice didn't have its usual iron bite. It was strained, gravelly, and laced with an ache so heavy it made the air between us turn thick.

Before I could answer, my phone buzzed violently in my jacket pocket.

The screen lit up with an incoming call from an unlisted Manhattan exchange.

I pulled it out and tapped the screen.

"Nora?" Evan Hale's voice echoed through the speaker, frantic and desperate. "Don't sign anything with Cross. Serena pulled her money, and the board is calling an emergency vote. You need to come home."