Cecilia sat motionless on the edge of the bed, eyes fixed on the unmistakable marks tangled in the wrinkled sheets.
No matter how many times she blinked, they wouldn't disappear.
Her hand drifted unconsciously to her lower back, then lower--where the dull ache still throbbed.
Ding-dong...
She stiffened.
"Room service."
Cecilia cracked the door open an inch and narrowed her eyes. "I didn't order room service."
The man outside offered a polite, professional smile. "We received an order for breakfast."
She glanced past him and saw a cart neatly parked by the door. Her stomach rumbled in betrayal.
It had to be that man from last night. The one who'd slipped out before dawn.
"Bring it in," she muttered, rubbing her temples.
The server wheeled the cart inside with ceremonial precision, lifting silver cloches like revealing treasures.
Milk. Toast. Bacon. Steak. A fucking burger.
Cecilia stared at the absurd buffet, her hangover pounding in time with her rising fury. Was this his passive-aggressive commentary on her stamina?
God--she'd been perfectly content to never learn his name. To let last night dissolve into anonymous regret.
But this? This was a provocation.
She stabbed the hotel phone buttons hard enough to crack the keypad.
"Who checked into the penthouse suite last night?"
The receptionist replied promptly, "Ma'am. The suite was booked under a Mr. Nick Rupert."
Nick?
She ended the call and fell into deep thought.
"Nick Rupert?" The name tasted foreign.
She'd lived in this city for over twenty years. Knew most of the men in her circle--some too well.
But Nick Rupert? Who was that?
Not one of the old-money WASPs. Not a hedge-fund bro. Certainly not--
Ding--
Her phone convulsed across the nightstand like a live wire.
Ronald.
Goddamn specter.
Logically, she knew she shouldn't escalate--not with their companies still entangled. An apology to Donovan was out of the question, but neither could she afford total war.
She hit answer.
"I want to see you." His voice was a blade between her ribs.
Well. So much for damage control.
"Ronald," she laughed, the sound splintering with ice, "when's the last time you had a brain scan? Your pathological entitlement's progressed to clinical."
"Cici." A pause. "I'm in parking lot. Try to run--I'll just follow you to the next hotel. And the next."
The call died.
"FUCK!"
THUD.
Her fist buried itself in the pillow.
How satisfying it would be to crack his skull like a walnut--
***
Thirty minutes later.
Cecilia changed and headed down. Her posture was graceful as always, face expressionless.
But every step she took felt like punishment. Her back ached. Her hips throbbed.
Even walking felt like someone had driven nails into her bones.
Ronald waiting beside a bright red Ferrari parked in the far corner. He opened the passenger door as she approached, visibly relieved when he saw her calm expression.
"Talk," she said, staring straight ahead at the concrete wall.
His fingers tightened on the wheel. "If this was about punishing me--congratulations. Cici, you win."
"How narcissistic of you," she mused. "To think I'd wreck my life just to spite yours."
"Cici--"
"Let me guess." She finally turned, nailing him with a gaze so glacial it physically made him recoil. "Now you'll renounce Gia? Swear eternal fidelity?"
A mocking pause.
"Tell me, Donovan--do I look starved for your loyalty?"
Ronald's jaw pulsed. "We built something for three years--"
"Ah, my naïve era." Her manicured nails drummed the leather like a countdown. "I've paid my stupidity tax in full--three wasted years. What more do you want? "
The silence curdled between them.
She reached for the door. "Save your useless things for someone who cares."
"What?"
"Post-cheating remorse. The world's cheapest currency." Her smile could've sterilized surgical tools. "Keep them. I deserve better."
The door slammed shut--or should have.
Ronald's body blocked her exit, his bespoke shoe screeching against concrete
"You'll always need me." His breath hit her cheek, feverish with possession. "Everything I want stays mine. Everything."
Her lips curled. "Such a lunatic."
His fury simmered, but he forced a calm expression as his gaze flickered to the camera blinking red in the corner before returning to her.
"I want to marry you, Cici. I mean it."
"I'm already married."
"With that penniless nobody?" Ronald's laugh was all sharp edges. "You're just lashing out. Three years together--a thousand nights--and--"
"And your thousand mistresses."
His hand shot out, fingers digging into her forearm. "You're forcing my hand."
"No, I never forced you," she twisted free with practiced ease, "you're just finally showing your true colors. YOU HYPOCRITICAL COWARD."
His brow twitched. His grip on her wrist loosened.
Cecilia thought he was letting go.
She was wrong.
He grabbed her again--tighter this time--and leaned in close. His breath, his face, everything closing in on her like a trap.
He was going to kiss her.
Without hesitation, Cecilia lifted her leg and delivered a swift, brutal kick--straight to his most sensitive spot.
"Ahh--!" Ronald gasped in pain, stumbling back with a pale, twisted expression.
Cecilia stood tall, chest heaving, staring him down. "Had enough?"
He met her gaze, and for a moment, she felt like he really saw her--really understood he could never win this game.
Ronald tried to reach for her again, but she held up a hand.
"Face it, Cici." Ronald's voice sliced through the garage's oily shadows. "Our families are entangled--more than a Wall Street merger. You'll always be a Martin. Which means you'll always be mine."
Her retort came sharp as a stiletto between ribs, "How interesting! There are another Miss Martins, right there on your bed, aren't there?"
A beat of silence.
Ronald's smirk faltered--just enough for her to see the crack in his armor.
Seeing that flicker of hesitation, Cecilia turned on her heel and walked away.
She knew Ronald too well.
The more he couldn't have her, the more he wanted her. He was a predator, a man with an obsessive need to dominate.
If he couldn't possess her, he'd rather destroy everything.
She must remain tense at all times.
Still, this time, he didn't follow her.
Behind her, Ronald turned on his heel--not toward the elevators, but to the unmarked black sedan lurking near the entrance.
Inside, two reporters flinched as the door was yanked open. They stared up at him in panic.
Ronald extended his palm without a word.
One of the reporters hesitantly placed their camera in his palm.
He scrolled through the pictures.
Each one better than the last--Cecilia's flushed face, their intimate distance, the tension between them.
A perfect scandal.
"We didn't mean to spy on you," one reporter stammered. "We heard a Biber was staying here, so we just--"
"Use these," Ronald interrupted, handing the camera back.
"...Sorry, what?"
"You heard me."
They exchanged a stunned glance, then nodded quickly.
From the composition, the setting, the lighting--it was gold. Any seasoned tabloid editor could spin this into an explosive headline.
And with Ronald's silent consent, the reporters had just struck gossip gold.
For the next few days, the headlines would write themselves.
And Ronald would be waiting.