10:30 PM.
At the Zilla Central Hotel and Bar, room 315, the only sound in the room was the steady hiss of water from the bathroom, a white noise that filled the space, the air carrying the faint, clean scent of steam and sandalwood. The door clicked open, its sound swallowed by the thick carpet, and a bald man, dressed in a tailored corporate suit, stepped inside. He halted precisely two steps from the king-sized bed, his posture straight, his hands clasped formally in front of him. He stood there patiently and respectfully, his eyes fixed on the closed bathroom door.
The shower ceased abruptly. In the sudden quiet, the drip-drip of the final drops from the showerhead was audible. A deep, male voice, slightly muffled by the door, cut through the silence. "What do you want, Ethan?"
"The old madam has sent a new batch of women to the estate for you to choose from again, sir," the bald man, Ethan, replied, his voice respectful.
The place fell into silence for a while, thick and heavy. The voice that finally responded was several degrees colder, laced with icy displeasure. "Make them leave before dawn."
"Yes, sir," Ethan replied with a slight bow of his head, though the man in the bathroom could not see it. He turned and exited as silently as he had entered.
Alone again, Devion Montgomery, one of the most independently powerful men in the country and the last of the revered Montgomery dynasty, stared at his own reflection. A towel was wrapped low around his waist, clinging to his hips. Water droplets traced paths down the defined muscles of his chest and back. His hands were under the stream of cold water from the faucet, the chill a deliberate shock to his system. His face, all sharp angles and stern lines, was blank, but his silver eyes held a simmering frustration.
It was always about this. Marriage. Women. Ever since his corporation stood its ground, his grandmother had been going on and on about this. She was convinced a woman by his side would have made him strong faster. But Devion held a different thought entirely. He didn't despise women; he just found their games and their expectations to be a waste of time. To him, they are often pushovers and time-wasters, with most of their intentions veiled in layers of pretense. He could admire strength and intelligence in a woman, but he had no desire for any attachment that could potentially become an anchor that would drag him down. That unwavering focus was why he remained single even in his thirties.
He snatched a hand towel from the rack, drying his hands with efficient movements, but then the soft click of his door opening again froze him. Ethan couldn't possibly be back this quickly. And there were no footsteps; whoever had entered was either impossibly light on their feet or not walking at all. His instincts, honed by a lifetime of caution, kicked in. His hand dipped into the waste bin beside the door, his fingers closing around the cool grip of a pistol. Cautiously, he pushed the bathroom door open a fraction wider and stepped out, but what he saw was a different sight from what he had expected.
Leaning against the main door, as if they had simply materialized there, was a figure. Barefoot, wearing a graphic tee featuring a faded band logo and baggy trousers. A black face cap was pulled low, completely shielding their features in shadow. Devion's grip on the gun loosened slightly because he felt no immediate threat, no dangerous aura emanating from the slouching form. It was an odd, almost surreal intrusion. He let his guard lower a fraction, though his brow remained deeply furrowed.
The figure stirred. It pushed off the door and took two wobbly steps into the room. Then, with a clumsy yank, she tore the cap from her head.
Revealed was a young woman with a shock of short, messy blonde hair. Her eyes were a vivid, unfocused green, glazed with the unmistakable haze of drunkenness. Her cheeks were flushed a deep, drunken pink. An unselfconscious smile spread across her face as her gaze landed on him. The smile, so open and genuine, struck a faint, unrecognized chord within him, which he immediately dismissed. She looked him up and down, her smile widening. "Nice abs," she slurred.
A flicker of cold amusement crossed Devion's face. This was a new approach; he had to give her that.
"Don't mind me," she continued, waving a dismissive hand as she weaved unsteadily past him. "I'm just going to crash here real quick. Probably, those guys chasing me would've... poof... vanished by then."
She beelined for the bed, let out a massive, unladylike yawn, and fell forward onto the duvet face-first. Within seconds, the soft, rhythmic sound of her snoring filled the room.
Devion raised a brow, even more amused. This person was different. A tomboy, clearly, from her attire and demeanor. And utterly, completely harmless in her current state. But her mention of being chased piqued his analytical mind. Why could he possibly be after a drunk girl? He slipped on his bathrobe and walked to the door, scanning the hallway outside his door. It was deserted, silent. Perhaps it had been her drunken imagination.
He turned back to look at the scene in his room. The woman was sprawled inelegantly across his expensive bedding, one arm dangling off the side, her peaceful snores a stark contrast to the silence he preferred. For a reason he himself couldn't understand, he made no move to call security and order her thrown out. He just let her sleep.
---
The sound was insistent as it filled her senses. Miller groaned, a low, pained sound, as she pried her eyes open. The light from the curtains stung, and she squinted her eyes. Fumbling in the pocket of her jeans, she pulled out her buzzing phone and swiped to answer without even glancing at the screen to know the caller's identity.
"Hello?" she mumbled, her voice groggy with sleep.
A frantic, worried voice shot back. "Miller! Where are you?"
Miller squeezed her eyes shut against the throbbing in her temples. "I don't know," she grumbled honestly.
"You idiot! What have you gotten yourself into? Are you fine, at least?" her best friend, Stephenie, demanded.
Still confused, Miller asked, "What happened, Steph?"
"You're all over the news!" Stephanie exclaimed, her voice shrill with panic.
Miller fell silent. All over the news? Her eyes snapped open fully, and she finally took in her surroundings. The luxurious but unfamiliar hotel room. The bed she was in. This wasn't her apartment. A wave of nausea and a sharp, punishing headache hit her simultaneously. The previous night came back in disjointed flashes: losing her job after beating up a disrespectful customer, drowning her sorrows in beer at Zilla Elite Bar, and the strange, menacing men who had surrounded her. She remembered the satisfying crack of a bottle against one's head, the frantic, adrenaline-fueled run through Zilla, and then... stumbling into a room. A stranger's room.
Her blood ran cold. She sat bolt upright, the movement sending a fresh spike of pain through her head. She frantically patted herself down, checking her clothes. They were all on, rumpled but intact. Thank God.
"Miller, are you still there?" Stephanie's anxious voice came from the other end.
"Steph" Miller called. "I got drunk and ended up in the room of a stranger."
"That's Devion Montgomery's room, you idiot! You've created a massive scandal with your drunkenness!" Stephanie groaned, the sound full of despair.
Miller froze. The name hit her like a physical blow. Montgomery. That couldn't be. "That's a joke, right?" she asked.
Stephanie let out a forced, hysterical laugh. "Yes, it is. Hilarious."
"Pick me up at Zilla Central. Now," Miller said, her voice suddenly clear and sharp with fear. She scrambled off the bed, her bare feet hitting the plush carpet. Her shoes were nowhere to be found. It didn't matter. She bolted for the door and tried to open it, but it wouldn't budge. "Trying to run, are we?" a manly voice spoke behind her, and she froze.