*Location: Declan Westcott's Penthouse, Manhattan | Time: 2:03 A.M.*
The first thing Hartley Sinclair noticed when she woke up was the scent: rich, clean, expensive. Then came the realization—that ceiling stared right back at her, it was way too high, fancy and unfamiliar—this wasn't her bed, she lurched upright, yanking the sheet up and groaning,
"Oh no. No, no, no, no," as the cold air caught her bare skin.
Everything slammed back into focus—shots with Lily, bass-heavy music at The Vesper Lounge, laughing until she snorted, and then… him. Tall, serious, those unsettling black eyes watching her like she was a riddle he'd already solved.
And now… she was in his bed.
A quiet rustle made her freeze. There he was—Mr. Mysterious from the bar—now buttoned-up and annoyingly composed, looking like he'd just stepped out of some perfume ad. Not a shirt wrinkle in sight, of course
"Morning, you're awake," he said, his voice deep and composed. British, maybe? Refined in a way that made her feel ten years younger and terribly underdressed—even wrapped in his sheet.
"You snore like someone's trying to start a lawnmower."
She groaned. "Oh my God."
"Mm. That's about what you said last night, too. Twice. Possibly three times. I lost count after your second tequila."
" I-I think I made a mistake," Hartley stammered, gathering the sheet tighter around her.
He tilted his head. "You think?"
Her eyes went wide. "We didn't… did we?"
He took a lazy sip of scotch, gaze drifting toward her bare shoulder peeking out from the sheets.
"We did. Repeatedly. You were very persuasive. A fierce little thing when provoked."
Heat rushed to her face. "I don't do this. Ever. I don't know what happened—"
"You drank. You danced. You kissed me first, by the way."
"I did not—"
"You did." He smiled, a cruel, unreadable curve.
"Then you asked if we could come here. Your exact words were: 'If you're going to stare at me like that, at least make it worth my time.'"
Hartley buried her face in her hands. "Oh, God."
He was clearly enjoying this.
"You were… unexpected," he said.
"Most women in my world are calculated. You were honest. Clumsy. Real."
"That's not comforting."
He crossed the room, slow and graceful like a predator circling its prey. "Tell me, Hartley—do you always run away the morning after?"
Her eyes shot up. "How do you know my name?"
"I have my ways."
"That's… very disturbing."
He smiled again. "Relax. You gave me your name after your third drink. Right after you slapped a man for calling you 'baby girl', look I'm not stalking you. Not yet."
"Yet?" she repeated, quickly searching for her clothes. They were folded neatly on a nearby chair. Of course, they were.
"Tell me," he said, watching her slip into her dress like a performance. "What do you do when you're not climbing into strangers' beds?"
"I didn't mean to—"
"Answer the question."
She swallowed. "I work as an assistant to a fashion buyer at a small firm in Midtown."
"That's disappointing."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You could be doing better."
She froze, halfway through tying her shoes. "You don't know me."
He only smiled, cool and assured. "But I will."
The way he said it was both a promise and a threat, silky with hidden teeth.
Five minutes later, dressed and humiliated, Hartley followed Declan into the minimalist kitchen where he handed her a cup of coffee that tasted like it cost $80 an ounce.
"Would you like a job, Hartley?"
She stood, her eyes wide. "From you? You want a repeat performance or what? Do you think I'd work for the man I just accidentally slept with?"
His gaze darkened. "It wasn't an accident. You needed something. I saw it in your eyes—desperation. And I'm very good at giving people what they need—for a price."
She stepped back, shaking her head. "I'm not for sale."
"Everyone's for sale," he said matter-of-factly. "But you'll figure that out soon enough."
He reached into his blazer pocket and handed her a thick, textured white card that read: **Declan Westcott, CEO – Blackwood International.**
Hartley blinked. "You're Declan Westcott?"
"Surprised?"
She nodded slowly. "I thought you'd be older or… more evil-looking."
"I get that a lot...Give me time." he winked
"You'll call me," he said, voice low, commanding.
She raised an eyebrow. "Why would I do that?"
"Because something's about to happen in your life that'll give you no choice."
Hartley turned and bolted to the elevator before she could embarrass herself further.
—----
Four hours later—her phone rang. The hospital again, this time, bad news, another bill.
Her brother's condition had worsened, and they couldn't continue his treatment without payment.
"Miss Sinclair," the nurse said, urgently. "Your brother's vitals have dropped again. We must discuss transferring him to an extended care unit—and coverage options."
Hartley barely heard her own voice say, "I'll be there."
She hung up, hands shaking.
She stared at the business card in her lap, hands trembling so badly she nearly dropped the phone, glaring down at the business card in he
r lap, every option closing in like a trap.
Declan Westcott.
He hadn't just been a mistake—he might be her only chance.