POV: Siena Blake

I didn’t know what I was doing, not really—not in the way that made sense to anyone with a shred of self-preservation. My entire life had gone up in flames in the span of a single morning, and instead of retreating into the shadows to lick my wounds and gather what was left of my pride, I found myself walking straight into the lion’s den.

I should’ve gone home. I should’ve collapsed under the crushing weight of humiliation and heartbreak, should’ve pulled the covers over my head and let the shame drown me in silence. I should’ve sat with the grief and let the betrayal simmer until it cooled into logic, into reason. But instead, I was moving with purpose, my heels clacking sharply against the pavement, my eyes fixed on the glittering tower ahead like it held the answers to everything that had gone wrong.

There was no logic in what I was doing. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe it was the aching, gnawing knowledge that my father—my sweet, stubborn, brilliant father—was sitting alone in a jail cell, branded a criminal for a crime he didn’t commit. Maybe it was the rage burning beneath my skin, the fury that had festered from the moment I heard Kendra laugh through that suite door, or maybe it was the echo of Zane’s cruelty still ringing in my ears. Or perhaps—most dangerously—it was the memory of a man with a face carved from stone and eyes that had seen the worst of the world and somehow survived it.

Lucian Voss.

He wasn’t just a stranger I had woken up beside. He was no ordinary man caught in the chaos of my ruined engagement. He was something else entirely—colder, sharper, and far more dangerous than anything I had ever encountered. He was a man who didn’t just walk into rooms; he claimed them. And in the twisted wreckage of my life, I saw him not as a mistake… but as a weapon.

If I couldn’t fight my enemies alone, maybe I could borrow their devil.

The hotel loomed in front of me, sleek and glittering, its glass facade reflecting the evening sun like a polished mask. It looked beautiful from the outside—refined, prestigious, even welcoming—but I knew better now. Behind the marble floors and gold trim, it was nothing but a gilded cage filled with secrets, betrayal, and lies.

I walked through the grand lobby, ignoring the subtle stares and hushed murmurs that followed me. My dress was wrinkled and clung to my body in all the wrong ways, my hair was pulled back into a messy twist that screamed exhaustion, and the heels I had shoved back on were scuffed and worn. I didn’t look like I belonged here—and I didn’t care. I wasn’t here to impress anyone. I was here for one thing only.

Lucian Voss.

The elevator ride to the top floor was swift and silent, a tense countdown to whatever foolish thing I was about to do. When the doors opened, I stepped out onto the private level, where two men in sleek black suits stood guarding the massive double doors of the penthouse. They looked like they had been carved from obsidian—expressionless, broad-shouldered, and entirely uninterested in whatever drama I was bringing to their boss’s doorstep.

I forced myself to approach, even as my stomach twisted and my legs threatened to buckle. I straightened my spine and lifted my chin, trying to mask the fact that every step I took felt like walking into enemy fire.

One of the guards moved to block me instantly, his voice clipped and professional. “Ma’am, this is a private floor. You can’t be here.”

“I need to see Mr. Voss,” I said, pushing the words out with as much calm as I could manage, even though my throat felt raw and tight.

He gave me a flat, unimpressed look. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No,” I admitted, swallowing hard. “But I was with him last night.”

The guards exchanged a glance, one of them raising an eyebrow while the other let out a quiet scoff. I saw the flicker of judgment in their eyes, and it made my skin crawl. I hated that look—that assumption that I was just another woman trying to cling to the memory of a night that probably meant nothing to him.

“Mr. Voss doesn’t entertain uninvited guests,” one of them said with a smirk. “Especially not… repeats.”

Heat flooded my cheeks—equal parts embarrassment and fury.

“I’m not here for that,” I snapped, forcing the tremble from my voice. “Just tell him the woman from last night is here. Please.”

There was a long pause before one of them finally relented, disappearing behind the doors without another word. I stood there in silence, my heart thudding wildly against my ribs, the seconds stretching into what felt like hours. My hands were clenched into fists at my sides to keep them from shaking.

When the guard returned, he opened the door with a faintly amused smirk. “You’ve got five minutes.”

I stepped into the penthouse and the doors shut behind me with a heavy, echoing thud that sounded far too much like a trap closing.

The room was even dimmer than I remembered. The curtains were drawn tightly, letting only slivers of muted light slip through, and the soft glow of amber lamps reflected off polished wood and dark leather. Everything smelled expensive—aged scotch, smoked wood, and something faintly spicy I couldn’t place. The quiet buzz of wealth and power vibrated in the air like static.

Lucian Voss stood near the minibar, his back half-turned toward me, swirling a glass of dark liquor in his hand as if this were just another calm evening in his carefully curated world. He looked entirely at ease, completely unbothered by my presence, like he had expected this all along and already decided it wasn’t worth his time.

When his gaze slid toward me, it was slow and indifferent, like I was nothing more than a minor disruption.

And in that moment, I realized something that made my stomach drop.

He didn’t recognize me.

“You,” he said, his voice low and smooth, edged with boredom. “You’re the woman causing such a fuss outside my suite?”

I blinked, stunned. “You don’t remember me?”

He took a small sip of his drink, his eyes cool and unreadable. “Should I?”

The words hit harder than I expected. It shouldn’t have hurt—I didn’t even know him—but somehow, it did.

“I’m the woman you slept with last night,” I said quietly, each word thick with humiliation. “The one you left in bed without a single word.”

His gaze sharpened slightly, a flicker of amusement crossing his features. “Hm,” he murmured, still entirely unfazed. “You must be mistaken.”

“I’m not.”

A beat of silence passed between us, heavy and tense.

Then, slowly, a cruel little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So let me guess. We had a magical night together, and now you’ve come to cash in your fairy tale ending?”

“It wasn’t magical,” I snapped, the words laced with acid. “I was drunk. I don’t even remember most of it. But I woke up next to you. And now my life is falling apart.”

He raised one eyebrow with mild curiosity.

“My father was arrested,” I said, stepping closer, willing him to hear the urgency in my voice. “He’s being framed by powerful people—Vincent DeLuca is behind it. I know you have connections. Influence. Power. I’m asking you to use it.”

He said nothing.

“Please,” I added, softer now. “I’m not asking for miracles. I just need you to look into it. Someone like you can find out things the police won’t. Maybe you can help.”

Lucian moved to the sofa, lowering himself with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He looked at me with a quiet detachment, as if weighing my value like a piece on a chessboard.

“And why,” he asked, voice slow and almost lazy, “would I do that?”

I took another step forward. “Because I’m asking you. Because I have no one left. Because whether you remember it or not, you were there when this nightmare started.”

He laughed—a dark, hollow sound devoid of any real humor.

“You think one night in my bed entitles you to favors?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement. “Do you even know who I am?”

“Yes,” I shot back, frustration tightening my chest. “Lucian Voss. CEO of Voss Global. The untouchable billionaire who thinks he’s above consequences.”

He smiled, a sharp glint in his eyes. “Flattery won’t help you.”

“I’m not flattering you,” I said. “I’m begging.”

He rose slowly, circling me like a predator enjoying the scent of weakness. “You came here thinking what? That I’d suddenly grow a conscience? That I’d play the hero because we happened to fuck once?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you meant it.” His voice was razor-sharp now. “You thought you could cry your way into my wallet. Tell me—did you cry this hard while you were grinding on me in bed?”

His words were poison. Cruel and deliberate.

I stared at him, my throat tight with rage. “You’re a monster.”

He tilted his head. “Maybe. But at least I don’t pretend to be anything else.”

Tears stung my eyes. “You don’t even care.”

“No,” he said without blinking. “I don’t care about you, or your father, or your sob story. And since this conversation adds nothing of value to my day, it’s over.”

He turned, walked to the desk, and calmly pulled out a sleek silver checkbook. With one flick of his pen, he wrote something down, tore the check, and tossed it onto the floor at my feet.

“Here,” he said. “Payment. For your… services.”

I stared at the check.

Ten thousand dollars.

My fingers trembled as I picked it up. Then, slowly, I crumpled it in my fist.

Lucian raised an eyebrow.

“You think you can buy me?” I whispered.

“I think I already did.”

I walked toward him, standing inches from his chest. “You arrogant son of a bitch.”

He shrugged. “Most women would’ve taken the money with a smile.”

“I’m not most women.”

“Clearly.”

Something inside me cracked wide open.

I tore the check in half. Then again. And again. Shreds of paper fluttered from my hands like ash as I threw them in his face.

He didn’t flinch.

“You’re disgusting,” I hissed. “I thought maybe—just maybe—you had a soul buried under all that money and power. I was wrong.”

“Clearly,” he repeated, amused.

“You’re not just heartless. You’re soulless. You think your wealth makes you God?”

He smiled faintly. “No. My wealth just lets me stop pretending the world isn’t cruel.”

I slapped him.

The sound cracked through the room like lightning.

He didn’t move. But his jaw twitched.

I stepped back, breathing hard.

“Go to hell,” I spat.

“Already there,” he said softly. “I’ll save you a seat.”

I turned and stormed toward the door, blood pounding in my ears.

“Oh, and sweetheart?” he called.

I paused.

“If you’re going to sell your body—make sure you charge more than your pride.”

I walked out without a word, my head held high, even as my soul bled inside me.

Lucian Voss was a devil.

And now, he was on my list.

POV: Ares Voss

The moment I laid eyes on her, I knew she wasn’t meant for me—not in the way fate typically wraps things in bows or in the way destiny carves love stories out of blood and chance. No, this girl didn’t belong in my world, and yet, somehow, her presence in that room felt like an open wound I couldn’t look away from.

She wasn’t here to flirt, to tease, or to entice me the way so many others had—those desperate women who latched onto our last name like leeches hoping to drain power from our veins. No, this one was different. She wasn’t polished or primped. She didn’t smell of ambition or seduction. She looked… destroyed.

Ruined in a way that called to something dark inside me, something I didn’t show the world but carried like a blade beneath my ribs. Her eyes were hollowed out with grief, glassy with tears she probably hadn’t had time to cry. Her dress, once elegant, now hung limply around her body, wrinkled and smeared with evidence of the night she’d rather forget. Her movements were jerky and unbalanced, as if she was running on adrenaline that had long since turned to dust. She looked like a woman who had screamed herself hoarse behind closed doors, then glued her pieces together just long enough to come here and beg.

And she didn’t even know who she was looking at.

To her, I was Lucian.

And that… that was where the game began.

I stayed where I was, casually leaning against the edge of the minibar, the soft amber lighting bouncing off the sharp lines of my jaw and cheekbones, casting shadows where I wanted mystery to linger. I held a glass of scotch between my fingers, swirling it slowly—not because I needed a drink, but because I knew the image it painted. Calm. Collected. Powerful.

I didn’t speak. Not right away.

I watched her instead.

Every twitch of her fingers. Every frantic sweep of her eyes across my face, looking for something—recognition, comfort, a shred of decency she thought my brother had.

It didn’t take long.

“You,” I said after a while, my voice tight, laced with mockery. “You’re the woman causing such a fuss outside my suite?”

Her disbelief was almost touching.

Her lips parted. Her brows pulled together. “You don’t remember me?”

I tilted my head slightly, allowing the corners of my lips to twitch, not quite into a smirk but close enough to provoke her.

Should I?

The unspoken question danced between us, daring her to reach for answers she didn’t want.

She stumbled through her pain with surprising strength, announcing that she was the woman Lucian had slept with the night before. The honesty in her voice, the rawness of that confession, almost pulled a laugh from me. Because the irony was richer than the scotch in my hand. My flawless, careful, golden brother—the perfect heir to the Voss empire—had unknowingly tossed his little scandal into my lap. She had come here, broken and desperate, pouring her soul into the wrong twin’s hands.

And me?

I didn’t correct her.

Not even for a second.

Because there was something sinfully entertaining about being mistaken for Lucian. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. But it was the first time the misunderstanding tasted this sweet. Like revenge soaked in honey. Like power born from chaos.

Pretending to be Lucian was a game I’d played more than once. One we never discussed. One he would detest if he ever found out. But that’s the price of being born second. Of entering the world two minutes too late, only to find every door already closing in your face. No matter how sharp your mind, how brutal your ambition, you’re always the afterthought—the echo of someone greater.

Lucian was everything I was expected to be. Charming. Polished. The picture of restraint and intellect. A walking statue of control and calculated success.

And me?

I was the sin behind the family name. The sharp end of the blade Lucian kept sheathed. The voice that whispered when he needed silence. The hand that reached into shadows when he refused to get dirty.

So yes—I leaned into the lie. And I savored every second of it.

She stepped closer, voice cracking as she explained—begged—her side of the story. Her father. The video. The setup. The betrayal. Her whole life unraveling by the hour. She believed she was appealing to the man who had spent the night with her. She thought I was the one who had kissed her skin and tangled her limbs with mine. She thought there might be compassion behind my cold stare.

Lucian might have blinked in sympathy. Might have given her a tissue, nodded quietly, and promised to “have someone look into it” before ushering her out the door with cold civility.

But I?

I preferred fire over pity. I fed on discomfort, on vulnerability, on people thinking they could control the storm when they were already drowning in it.

“You think one night between the sheets entitles you to a favor?” I asked, my voice smooth and slow, a venomous caress. “Do you even understand who you’re talking to?”

She straightened, trying to gather the scraps of her pride, and snapped back with certainty. “Lucian Voss. CEO of Voss Global. Untouchable billionaire with more money than God and a personality to match.”

I nearly laughed. The ignorance, though not her fault, was delicious.

Oh, sweetheart. If only you knew how wrong you were.

I began to circle her like a wolf stalking its prey, watching the way she tensed with every step. Her chest rose and fell quickly, her breath shallow, her hands twitching slightly at her sides like she was trying to hide the fear blossoming beneath her skin.

This one had fire. Beautiful, reckless fire.

But fire was fragile when surrounded by ice.

I kept my gaze fixed on her as I let the words bleed from my mouth, sharp and poisonous. I wanted to see exactly where her pride ended and her desperation began. When I finally tossed the check at her feet—ten thousand dollars, a mere flick of the wrist for a Voss—the way she froze was almost erotic in its intensity.

She stared at it. Then back at me.

And when she crushed it in her fist and tore it apart without blinking, I felt something inside me spark.

Lucian would’ve sighed. Maybe even respected her resistance.

I, however, felt something much darker.

A pulse.

Deep. Primitive.

A throb of interest that wasn’t physical, but far more dangerous.

She was unbreakable—at least for now.

“You think you can buy me?” she whispered, her voice hoarse with rage, her chest heaving as she tried to hold herself together.

I tilted my head and studied her. “I think I already did.”

Her reaction was instant. She snapped. Called me arrogant. Called me a bastard. Soulless. Disgusting. Her words were sharp, loud, and filled with more heat than sense.

But none of it pierced.

I’d been called worse by better.

Then came the slap.

Hard. Unapologetic. Her hand cracked against my face with all the fury of a woman who had just watched her life collapse in slow motion.

And for the first time in years, my skin tingled.

Not from pain.

From pleasure.

I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink. I just stood there and let her see that she hadn’t hurt me.

Because she couldn’t.

Not like that.

But in that same moment… something shifted.

A flicker.

A jolt deep in my spine, electric and strange. The echo—that strange, barely-there connection Lucian and I shared since birth—flickered to life. A phantom memory bled into me. Not mine, but his. Lust. Guilt. Confusion. Emotion buried under years of discipline.

He had felt something that night. He wasn’t supposed to, but he had.

And she—this woman standing in front of me, spitting fury like bullets—had made him feel it.

That changed everything.

Lucian didn’t feel. Not deeply. Not genuinely. Especially not for women.

So what the hell had she done to him?

When she stormed out, heels snapping like gunfire against the marble floor, I let her go. I watched the sway of her body, the set of her shoulders, the storm in her eyes.

I could’ve stopped her.

I could’ve told her the truth.

That I wasn’t the man who’d kissed her. That I wasn’t the one who had held her in that bed, whispered things against her throat, made her forget the name she carried.

But I didn’t.

Because this… was better.

Let her sharpen her hatred like a blade.

Let her plot her revenge against the wrong twin.

Let her bury herself in a vendetta that had nothing to do with me—until it did.

Because eventually, she would find out.

And by then?

It would be far too late.

She’d already be tangled in my trap.

And I’d be the one holding the chain.

I returned to the couch, the ghost of her scent still hanging in the air like a sin I didn’t regret. Something soft and floral, but beneath it, something wilder. Spiced. Untamed. Like her.

She didn’t know who I was.

But that made her the perfect target.

Lucian may have touched her body.

But I?

I planned to touch her soul.

And when I was done, she’d burn for me in ways she never expected.

POV: Siena Blake

I didn’t remember walking down the hallway again.

My mind had gone completely blank, emptied by pain so deep it didn’t allow thought anymore—just movement. Mechanical. Soulless. My heels struck the marble floors with sharp clicks that echoed like gunshots in my skull, but I didn’t feel them. The sound existed in another world, distant and disconnected, like I was watching someone else move through the grand, cold corridor. My limbs were heavy, my skin numb, and yet every nerve in my body was lit with raw, open agony. It felt like my soul had been ripped from me and my body was just dragging itself along, out of habit, out of necessity, because collapsing wasn’t an option—not yet.

I reached the lobby, spine straight, chin lifted, walking like a woman who still had something to lose, though inside I was nothing but a collapsing cathedral of grief and rage. My face wore a mask of calm, but behind it, I was crumbling. Shattered. Splintering.

Inside, I was a ruined symphony—one that once played beautifully, proudly—but now only echoed broken notes of shame, betrayal, and humiliation.

And the words kept circling my mind like vultures circling a corpse.

“You think I already bought you.”

“If you’re going to sell your body next time—at least make it worth more than your pride.”

The memory of his voice was like acid in my veins, eating away at what little was left of my dignity. Each cruel syllable played again and again in my mind, louder with every pass, until I could barely hear the sound of my own heartbeat over it.

He had looked at me like I was beneath him. Spat those words like truth. Called me a whore without a blink, without hesitation, like he truly believed I had no value beyond what I could offer between my legs. He reduced me to nothing more than a transaction, a product, a bargaining chip in the game of power and control. My father’s life—his freedom—had been twisted into leverage to crush me.

And I had let it happen.

God, I had stood there, desperate and cornered and shaking. I had cried. I had pleaded. I had lost everything, including myself. That’s what desperation does. It strips you bare, claws at your pride until you don’t even recognize yourself in the mirror. And by the end of it, I didn’t.

I stepped out of the hotel into the blinding afternoon sun, and it was almost cruel in its brightness. The sky above was clear, almost unnaturally so—an expanse of blue so calm and perfect it made my chest ache. The sun pressed down on me with a suffocating heat, but it wasn’t the temperature that made me burn.

It was the shame.

The raw, skin-deep humiliation that clung to me like sweat. It soaked into the fabric of my clothes, seeped into my bones, and left me feeling exposed under the unforgiving daylight. The dress I wore felt like a costume now—cheap armor for a war I’d already lost.

I wanted to scream.

I wanted to claw at my skin, at the guilt, the shame, the helplessness, until nothing remained. I wanted to tear the memory of Lucian Voss’s voice out of my mind and set fire to the moment I fell apart in front of him.

But I didn’t scream.

I didn’t cry.

Instead, my phone began buzzing.

Once. Then again. Then again.

Four times in a row.

Kendra.

Her name flashing on the screen made something snap inside me.

My jaw locked as I pulled the phone from my purse, my fingers tight around it like it might shatter in my hand. I didn’t want to read her messages. But I did. One by one.

Kendra:

“Siena, please. We need to talk.”

“I just found out how serious it is — about your dad. I’m so sorry.”

“Where are you? Please, meet me. Just talk to me.”

“I didn’t know things would go this far. I swear.”

That last line.

It froze me.

She didn’t know things would go this far?

So she had known something.

The image of her in that black bodycon dress flashed behind my eyes—her hair perfectly curled, her lips painted red, laughing with Zane in the hotel elevator like they had just won the lottery. The girl who had walked into that hotel beside my fiancé was not the one sending teary-eyed apologies now.

The girl at the hotel was smug.

Triumphant.

Merciless.

And suddenly, her crocodile tears through text meant nothing.

I didn’t reply right away. Instead, I stood on the sidewalk outside the hotel, breathing in slow, even drags of air as I imagined all the different ways I could ruin her. I pictured the look on her face when she realized I knew. When I repeated her words back to her. When I looked her in the eye and made her taste the betrayal she’d fed me.

But not yet.

If I wanted answers—if I wanted to end this—I needed to be smart.

So I pulled the mask back on. I steadied my shaking hands. I wiped the rage from my eyes.

And I typed.

Me:

“Where?”

Her response was instant, like a spider eager to pull her prey back into the web.

Kendra:

“Our favorite café. Monroe’s. Half an hour?”

I stared at the message for a long time, fingers cold around the phone.

Our café.

The place where we celebrated promotions, shared secrets over dessert, toasted to love and future dreams with overpriced champagne. The place where she had helped me choose wedding flowers. Where she had cried laughing as we taste-tested cakes and mocked bridal magazines. The place where I had once felt safest with her.

And all along, she’d been sharpening the blade behind my back.

Fine.

I’d meet her at Monroe’s.

But this time, I wouldn’t come with tears in my eyes or hope in my heart.

This time, I’d come armed with silence.

The kind of silence that cut deeper than any scream ever could.

When I walked into the café, the scent of cinnamon and espresso wrapped around me, warm and familiar. The dusty teal walls, the golden menus, the potted succulents on each table—it was all exactly the same.

But I wasn’t.

And then I saw her.

Kendra Monroe.

Sitting at our usual corner table like she owned the world, latte in hand, eyes scanning the entrance. She was dressed carefully, her hair in a high ponytail, pearl earrings glinting like innocence personified. She looked calm. Concerned. Controlled.

A perfect performance.

She stood up the moment she saw me, plastering on a relieved smile. “Siena! Oh my God—thank God you came.”

I didn’t return the smile. I didn’t rush into her arms like I might have two days ago.

I just walked over and pulled out the chair across from her, sitting without a word.

She hesitated, just for a second, before sitting down too. The look in her eyes flickered—surprise? Discomfort? I wasn’t sure. But it was gone in an instant.

“I’ve been trying to reach you all morning,” she said quickly, leaning forward, eyes wide with false concern. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw the news about your dad. Fraud? Embezzlement? It’s insane. Are you okay?”

I stared at her, every instinct screaming at me not to fall for it. But I forced a nod, letting my voice soften. “It’s been… a rough day.”

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand like she hadn’t already stabbed me in the back. Her touch was warm. Comforting. Sickening.

“I should’ve gone to you sooner,” she said softly.

No.

She didn’t know what I knew.

I let my shoulders sag and lowered my eyes. “I just feel like I’m drowning. Zane won’t talk to me. He ended everything. He said… he said there’s a video of me… with someone. I don’t remember anything. I woke up in a stranger’s bed, Kendra. I don’t know how I got there.”

She gasped. Right on cue. “Oh no… Siena…”

Her voice trembled, just enough to sound real.

She deserved an award.

“I don’t even know who he was,” I whispered. “Zane said he has footage. He’s threatening to release it. He wants the ring back… and money for the wedding.”

Kendra bit her lip, eyes wide. “That’s… that’s awful. I’m so sorry. But maybe… maybe you can still fix it. You could talk to him. Apologize. Try to explain. He might still love you.”

There it was.

The suggestion.

The push.

I blinked at her slowly. “You think so?”

She nodded eagerly, her voice brightening. “Yes. If you show him how sorry you are… maybe he’ll forgive you.”

I smiled faintly.

“Okay.”

She lit up like she’d just won. “I’ll text him. Tell him to meet us. Just… be calm, okay? Don’t make things worse.”

Ten minutes later, Zane Callahan walked in.

And my heart—stupid, traitorous heart still clenched at the sight of him.

He wore a perfect suit, every detail polished, every line sharp. His expression was unreadable, his eyes empty. And he looked at me like I disgusted him.

“Siena,” he said flatly.

I stood slowly, letting my body curl inward, my voice small. “Zane… please. I didn’t mean for any of this. I didn’t even know what I was doing.”

He didn’t answer.

“I was drunk,” I whispered. “I would never cheat on you—not on purpose. Please, don’t let this ruin us.”

Beside him, Kendra crossed her arms, watching.

He smirked. “What do you want, Siena? For me to take you back?”

“I want to fix this,” I said, my voice cracking. “I miss you.”

He stepped closer, voice colder than ice. “You slept with a stranger and disgraced yourself. You humiliated me. And now you want sympathy?”

I bowed my head.

“I’ll do anything,” I whispered.

He looked at Kendra. She smiled faintly.

Then he turned back to me. “Beg.”

I stared at him.

“You heard me. Beg. Say you’re a whore who didn’t mean to be.”

And so I did.

I sank to my knees.

Whispered my shame.

Let them see me crumble.

But behind my eyes, a fire burned.

Because I had been to the hotel.

I had heard everything.

And they had no idea—

That their victim was done being weak.

Now?

Now I would become their worst nightmare.