CHAPTER ONE: THE WRONG ROOM
I want this to be quick. In and out, like I never stepped inside. Like I was never here.
That's what I keep telling myself as I stand in the elevator, alone, clutching a manila envelope tight to my chest. The air feels heavier the higher I go, pressing down on me like it knows I don't belong. The steel doors reflect my anxious face at me, wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and a courier badge that isn't mine. Forged perfectly enough to pass a glance, but not sufficient to survive suspicion.
The badge reads J. Rivera. But I'm not J. Rivera.
The floor indicator lights blink slowly.
54. 55. 56…
Why am I sweating?
This hotel is quiet in a way that feels wrong, like the silence is alive, waiting to snap its jaws shut around me. There is no ambient music. There are no footsteps. Just the low hum of luxury, so clean—too clean.
58.
The elevator glides to a halt. The doors slide open with a whisper, revealing a hallway that stretches like it's trying to swallow me whole. The carpet is thick, cream colored, whisper-soft under my shoes. The lights are dimmed just enough to feel theatrical. Like I've stepped into a set. A stage.
I find Room 5809.
My pulse pounds in my ears.
I raise my hand to knock, but hesitate.
What if this is a mistake? What if they're inside?
I knock once. Soft.
Nothing.
Again, louder.
Still nothing.
I glance down the hallway. Empty. Cameras above each corner are blinking lazily. Watching.
The door handle is silver, sleek, far too polished. I try it.
It turns.
Unlocked.
Every instinct screams Don't.
But I push the door open.
"Hello?" I call softly.
No answer.
The room is… silent. Still. Too perfect.
I step inside.
It smells like expensive cologne and polished wood. The floor-to-ceiling windows show the city below, glittering like spilled stars. Every piece of furniture is deliberately placed with black leather, glass, and marble. Clean. Controlled.
But not empty.
Not really.
The desk near the window draws my eye.
It's cluttered. A single red flag in an otherwise surgical environment. Papers. Folders. A sleek black pistol, glinting in the low light like it's been waiting for me.
I pause. A sick weight settles in my gut.
My feet move forward, even as my brain screams to turn around.
And then I see them.
On the wall to the right, pinned with precise, surgical care
Photographs.
Rows of them.
At first, I don't understand what I'm seeing. Then I do.
Me.
Dozens of them.
One of me stepping off a bus. One grabbing coffee at my favorite shop. One sitting on my fire escape. One of us is sleeping.
My breath leaves me in a sharp exhale.
What is this?
Why me?
I step back too quickly. My hand knocks a pen off the desk and it clatters to the floor, loud in the silence. Panic claws its way up my throat. I have to get out.
I turn
Click.
The door closes behind me.
My stomach drops.
I spin around.
And there he is.
Tall.
Silent.
Immovable.
Aiden Hernandez.
In a world like this, you don't say his name out loud.
CEO. Billionaire. Ghost.
Rumors wrap around him like smoke. Drugs, money laundering, and even murder, but none have been proven. Nothing sticks. Untouchable.
His tailored black suit hugs his frame like it was made for his body, and it probably was. One hand still on the doorknob. The other... relaxed. Too relaxed.
His eyes are the kind you feel before you see.
Cold.
Sharp.
Watching.
I feel like a rabbit staring into the eyes of a lion who hasn't eaten in days.
His gaze flicks from my face to the wall. To the photos.
Then back to me.
He doesn't blink.
He doesn't raise his voice.
"How did you get in here?"
The words are low. Measured. Too calm to be good.
I hold the envelope up like a shield. "Courier. Room 5809. I didn't touch anything. I just—"
"Put it down."
"I swear, I didn't know—"
"Put it. Down."
I drop the envelope.
It lands on the rug like a whisper.
His eyes return to the wall.
"You weren't supposed to see this," he murmurs, almost to himself.
"I didn't mean to," I say quickly. "I'll leave right now. Please."
He doesn't respond.
Just takes a step forward.
My spine meets the edge of the desk. Nowhere to go.
Then his hand moves.
Quick.
Smooth.
And suddenly—
A gun.
Pointed at my forehead.
I freeze.
The blood in my veins turns to ice.
"Please," I whisper.
He steps closer. "What else did you see?"
"Nothing. Just the photos, that's it. I didn't even look at the papers—"
"You saw enough."
I shake my head. "I won't say anything. I swear, I don't know anything."
The gun stays up.
My knees threaten to give.
Just then
He lowers it.
Not slowly. Casually. Like the threat was more to make a point than to end me.
But the damage is done. My heart is a drum in my chest.
He turns his back to me, walks over to the desk. Picks up the envelope I dropped, tears it open. Scans it. His jaw clenches slightly.
Then he crumples it in one hand and tosses it into a glass bin.
I watch him, still frozen.
"Turn around," he says.
"What?"
"Turn. Around."
I don't move.
"Now."
I obey.
Not because I trust him. But because my legs are barely holding me up.
I hear him moving behind me.
Drawers opening.
A phone dials.
"She's staying," he says into it. His voice is ice. "Clear the elevators."
He ends the call.
I turn back, heart thudding. "You can't just keep me here."
His face is unreadable.
"You'll stay here tonight," he says. "Longer, if necessary."
"Absolutely not," I breathe. "I have a life, I have friends, school, a job—"
"You had a life," he replies, stepping toward me. "It changed the moment you stepped through that door."
I back away, but the wall stops me.
"What do you want from me?"
He studies me.
Then: "Answers."
"I don't have any."
"Maybe," he says. "But someone used you. Someone sent you here, knowing I'd see those photos. That I'd see you."
My skin prickles. "I don't know what you're talking about—"
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying!"
He stops, watching me again with that predator's stillness.
"Name?"
My breath hitches.
"What?"
"Your real name."
I don't answer.
Then he says it.
"Serina Davies."
A chill runs through me.
I never told him.
I never showed ID.
He knew.
He's known the whole time.
And for the first time since I walked into this penthouse, I realize something.
This wasn't a mistake.
It was a setup.
But not by me.
By someone else.
And now, I'm trapped.