Dominic Ashford's POV
Someone was in my bed.
I knew it before I opened my eyes. The weight on the mattress. The soft breathing. The faint smell of jasmine perfume mixed with something else—fear.
My head felt like it had been hit with a sledgehammer. My mouth tasted like copper and ash. And I couldn't remember anything after my third drink at the bar last night.
What the hell happened?
I forced my eyes open. Sunlight stabbed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. And there, tangled in my silk sheets, was a woman.
Young. Beautiful. Dark hair spread across my pillow like spilled ink.
And completely naked.
My blood turned to ice.
No. No, no, no.
I sat up too fast. The room tilted. My stomach churned. But the panic was worse than the headache.
I never brought women home. Ever. My penthouse was my fortress, my safe space. The one place where gold-diggers and corporate spies couldn't reach me.
So how did she get here?
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand, my fingers shaking. Six missed calls from Marcus, my head of security. Twelve text messages.
The last one made my chest tight:
"Boss, we need to talk. NOW."
I pulled on my pants, not bothering with a shirt. My mind raced through possibilities, each one worse than the last. A setup. A trap. A woman claiming I forced her, demanding millions to keep quiet.
It had happened before. Three years ago, a model tried to sue me for assault after I rejected her at a party. My lawyers destroyed her case, but the scandal cost me a major contract.
Since then, I was careful. So careful. I never drank too much. Never went home with strangers. Never let anyone close enough to hurt me.
But somehow, I'd broken every rule.
The woman stirred. Her eyes fluttered open—brown and confused and full of panic that looked almost... real.
"You're awake," I said, keeping my voice flat. Emotionless. "Good."
I couldn't let her see my confusion. Couldn't show weakness. In business and in life, weakness got you destroyed.
She sat up, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her face was pale. Scared.
"I don't—" Her voice cracked. "I don't understand. What happened? How did I get here?"
Good performance, I thought bitterly. Very convincing.
I'd seen this act before. The innocent confusion. The trembling hands. The wide, frightened eyes designed to make men feel protective and guilty.
I stood up, pulling on my pants. "You got what you wanted. Now leave quietly, and I'll compensate you for your time."
Her face went white. "What are you talking about? I don't even know who you are!"
Right. Everyone in the city knew who I was. Dominic Ashford. The billionaire who built an empire from nothing. The CEO who crushed competitors like insects.
"Don't play games." I walked to my desk, pulled out my checkbook. The same one I used to pay off the last woman who tried this trick. "How much do you want?"
Something flickered across her face—not greed, but horror. Humiliation.
For a second, doubt crept in. But I shoved it away.
She's good. Really good.
She stumbled out of bed, grabbing her clothes from the floor. Her dress was torn. Her hands shook so badly she could barely hold it.
"I need to leave." Tears filled her eyes. "I need to go right now."
"At least tell me your name," I said, though I didn't really care. I just needed information in case she tried to blackmail me later.
But she didn't answer. She ran.
The door slammed behind her, and the penthouse fell silent.
I stood there, staring at the rumpled bed, my chest tight with something I refused to name.
It doesn't matter. She's gone. Problem solved.
My phone rang. Marcus.
"Get up here," I said before he could speak. "Now."
Marcus arrived five minutes later, his face grim. He'd been with me since the beginning—the only person I trusted. The only person who knew about my uncle stealing my inheritance, about the years I spent homeless and hungry, clawing my way back to power.
"Tell me everything," I demanded.
Marcus pulled out his tablet. "You went to Sullivan's Bar last night. Alone. You had three drinks—your usual. Then a woman approached you. Brunette, mid-twenties, expensive dress."
My stomach dropped. "And?"
"Security footage shows you talking to her for about twenty minutes. Then you left together. She helped you to your car—you were stumbling, boss. That's not like you."
Stumbling? After three drinks?
"Show me the footage."
Marcus pulled it up. There I was, laughing at something the woman said. Leaning on her for support. Getting into my car with her hand on my arm, guiding me like I was drunk.
But I wasn't drunk. I never got drunk on three whiskeys.
"I was drugged," I said slowly. "She drugged me."
Marcus nodded. "That's what I thought. But boss, there's more. I ran her ID from building security."
He pulled up a driver's license photo. The woman from my bed stared back at me, unsmiling and professional.
Sophia Chen. Age 22. Address: Chen Family Estate.
Chen.
The name hit me like a punch to the gut.
"Chen Technologies," I said quietly. "The company we're acquiring next week."
"Yes, sir." Marcus looked grim. "She's the daughter of the founder. The one who's been fighting the acquisition."
Everything clicked into place. The drugged drinks. The seduction. The morning-after scene designed to make me feel guilty or compromised.
She was trying to stop the acquisition. Trying to use sex and blackmail to save her bankrupt family company.
How dare she.
Women had tried to trap me before, but never like this. Never with such calculated manipulation.
Rage burned through me, hot and clean. It burned away the doubt, the strange tug I'd felt when she ran away crying.
"Find out everything about her," I ordered. "Where she went. Who she's working with. What her plan is."
"Boss, there's something else." Marcus hesitated. "I checked the building cameras. Someone else came to your penthouse last night. Before the girl arrived."
"Who?"
"Couldn't see the face. But they used a master key to enter. They were only here for three minutes, then left."
My blood ran cold. "Someone else was in my home?"
"Yes, sir. And boss—" Marcus pulled up another image. "They left something on your nightstand. This."
It was a photo. Me and Sophia Chen, asleep in my bed. Professional quality. Perfect blackmail material.
But that wasn't the worst part.
The worst part was the note attached:
"The Chen family sends their regards. Expect our call soon."
I stared at the photo, at my own sleeping face, at the woman I'd just thrown out of my home.
This wasn't just about stopping an acquisition. This was a coordinated attack. A trap set with precision and planning.
And I'd walked right into it.
"Cancel the acquisition," I said coldly. "No—change the terms. Make them worse. If the Chens want to play dirty, I'll show them what dirty really means."
Marcus nodded. "What about the girl?"
I thought about her tears. Her confusion. Her shaking hands.
All fake. All performance.
"If she comes back demanding money, have security throw her out. If she goes to the press, destroy her credibility. If she tries to contact me again—"
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
Just two words:
"I'm pregnant."
The world stopped.
My hand tightened around the phone until my knuckles turned white. My vision tunneled. My heart pounded in my ears like war drums.
Pregnant.
The oldest trap in the world. The most effective manipulation. The one thing that could tie me to her forever, that could give her access to my fortune, my company, my life.
"Boss?" Marcus looked worried. "What is it?"
I showed him the text.
Marcus went pale. "That was fast."
Too fast. Which meant she'd already been pregnant. Or this was another lie in a web of lies.
Either way, I wouldn't fall for it.
"Get me a lawyer," I said, my voice like ice. "The best one. I want paternity test waivers, NDAs, and a restraining order drawn up within the hour."
"Yes, sir."
But as Marcus left, I looked at the photo again. At Sophia Chen's sleeping face.
Something nagged at me. Something wrong.
Because in that photo, she didn't look like a seductress or a schemer.
She looked scared.