I don't sleep.
How could I? I'm sitting in a hotel suite that costs more than my monthly rent, wearing a wrinkled dress that was supposed to mark a milestone in my relationship, while the man I trusted is out there somewhere thinking he successfully handed me off to someone who "collects people."
And Caspian Thorne—billionaire, stranger, the man I accidentally slept with—won't let me leave.
For my own protection, he says.
The crazy thing? I believe him.
He's been on his phone for the past hour, pacing the suite, speaking in low tones that I try not to eavesdrop on but can't help overhearing bits of. Names I don't recognize. Threats delivered with cold precision. The systematic dismantling of whatever web Todd got himself tangled in.
I should be terrified. Should be demanding he let me go, calling Rhea, getting as far away from this situation as possible.
But I'm not.
Maybe it's shock. Maybe it's the realization that the safest place I can be right now is in a room with a man who has the power to make problems disappear. Or maybe—and this is the part that scares me most—it's because some part of me doesn't want to leave.
"You should try to get some rest." Caspian's voice pulls me from my thoughts. He's standing by the window again, silhouetted against the Seattle skyline, and I wonder if he ever sits still or if he's always this restless coil of controlled energy.
"I'm fine."
"You're exhausted." He turns to face me, and even across the room I can feel the weight of his attention. "And you're still wearing that dress."
I look down at myself. The emerald green that was supposed to make me feel confident and beautiful just makes me feel like an idiot now. "I don't exactly have other options."
He moves to the closet, pulls out a shirt still in dry cleaning plastic. Returns to where I'm curled up on the couch and holds it out.
"It'll be big on you," he says. "But more comfortable than that."
I take the shirt—soft, expensive, smelling like cedar and that darkness that's entirely him—and our fingers brush. Just for a second. But I feel it everywhere, and from the way his eyes darken, he does too.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He nods toward the bathroom. "Go. Change. I'll order more coffee."
When I emerge a few minutes later, I'm swimming in his shirt. It hits me mid-thigh, the sleeves rolled up three times just so I can use my hands. I've washed my face, taken down my hair, and without the armor of makeup and carefully chosen clothes, I feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with how much skin is showing.
Caspian goes very still when he sees me.
"What?" I tug at the hem self-consciously.
"Nothing." But his voice is rougher than before. "Coffee's on the table."
We end up sitting across from each other—me on the couch, him in the chair, a coffee table between us like a demilitarized zone. The suite is quiet except for the distant hum of the city below.
"Tell me about yourself," he says after a long moment.
I blink. "What?"
"You. Sloane Bennett. What do you do when you're not accidentally ending up in strangers' hotel rooms?"
The question is so unexpected I almost laugh. "Is this an interrogation?"
"Call it curiosity." He leans back, coffee cup cradled in his hands, and he looks almost... normal like this. Less like a billionaire who could buy and sell companies with a phone call and more like just a man. "We skipped several steps tonight. I'd like to fill in the gaps."
"Why?"
"Because you're sitting in my suite at two in the morning wearing my shirt, and I still don't know your favorite color."
There's something about the way he says it—matter-of-fact but with an undercurrent of something warmer—that makes my chest tight.
"Green," I hear myself say. "Not emerald like this dress. More like... forest green. The color of moss after rain."
He nods like I've just revealed something important. "What do you do for work?"
"I work at a gallery. Aperture, in Pioneer Square. It's small, independent, mostly local artists." I wrap my hands around my coffee mug. "But what I really do—what I want to do full-time someday—is illustrate children's books."
Interest flickers in his eyes. "You're an artist."
"Trying to be." I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "I've done a few freelance projects, built up a portfolio. But breaking into publishing is... hard. So I work at the gallery to pay rent and draw when I can and hope that someday someone will take a chance on me."
"Why children's books?"
The question catches me off guard. Most people don't ask why. They just nod politely and change the subject.
"Because kids deserve magic," I say quietly. "They deserve stories that make them feel seen and adventures that remind them the world is bigger than whatever small corner they're stuck in. I grew up with a mother who didn't know what to do with me, and books were the only place I felt... safe. Wanted. I want to create that for someone else."
The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable. It's weighted. Like he's actually hearing me, not just waiting for his turn to talk.
"You'll make it," he says finally.
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." He sets down his coffee cup, and the certainty in his voice makes me believe him. "Anyone with that much passion and purpose doesn't fail. They just haven't succeeded yet."
Something warm blooms in my chest. "What about you? What does a venture capitalist do besides make intimidating phone calls at midnight?"
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "I invest in companies. Usually tech startups, some sustainable energy. I look for potential that others miss and bet on it."
"And you win those bets."
"Usually."
"Why?"
"Because I'm good at reading people. Seeing what they're capable of even when they can't see it themselves." He pauses. "And because failure isn't something I allow."
There's a story there. Something dark in the way he says it. But before I can ask, he's already moving on.
"Tell me about your friend. Rhea."
So I do. I tell him about meeting Rhea in a figure drawing class our freshman year of college, how she's a photographer with a gift for capturing people at their most honest, how she's been my anchor through every crisis and celebration for the past six years.
He listens like my words matter. Asks questions that show he's paying attention—not just to what I'm saying but to what I'm not saying too.
And then somehow we're talking about everything. His company, his work, the rush of closing a deal. My art, the frustration of creative blocks, the joy of finally getting a piece right. Movies we've seen, books we've read, places we want to travel.
Hours slip by like minutes.
I learn that he's thirty-two and has been running Thorne Ventures since he was twenty-two. That he drinks his coffee black and works sixteen-hour days and hasn't taken a real vacation in three years. That he grew up on Mercer Island in a house he never visits anymore for reasons he doesn't explain.
He learns that I'm twenty-six and have lived in the same tiny studio for four years because I love the neighborhood. That I drink too much coffee and not enough water and sometimes lose entire days to drawing without realizing I haven't eaten. That I'm close to my best friend but estranged from my mother for reasons I also don't explain.
There's chemistry between us. Undeniable. Electric.
But it's different than what happened in the dark earlier. This is... connection. The dangerous kind that makes you want things you know you shouldn't want.
"You're easy to talk to," I say without thinking. "I didn't expect that."
"What did you expect?"
"Honestly? I thought you'd be cold. Distant. The way people that successful usually are."
"I am cold." He says it like it's fact. "Ask anyone who works for me."
"You're not cold with me."
Something shifts in his expression. "No," he admits quietly. "I'm not."
The air between us feels charged. Heavy with things we're not saying.
I should look away. Break this moment before it becomes something neither of us can take back. But I can't seem to make myself move.
"Caspian—"
"It's getting late." He stands abruptly, the spell broken. "Early, I mean. Sun's coming up."
I turn to look at the windows. He's right. The sky is starting to lighten, purple giving way to pink and gold. Dawn breaking over Seattle.
Which means this night—this strange, impossible night—is ending.
Reality is waiting outside this suite. All the problems we've been avoiding by talking about favorite colors and childhood dreams.
"I should go home," I say, but I don't move.
"I'll call you a car." He's already pulling out his phone, efficient and distant again, and I hate how quickly he can put those walls back up.
"What about Todd? And Marcus Veil? And—"
"I'm handling it." His tone leaves no room for argument. "You stay home tomorrow. Don't answer calls from numbers you don't recognize. Don't go anywhere alone. I'll have someone watching your building just in case."
"You're putting security on me?"
"Yes."
"I don't need—"
"Sloane." He looks at me, and the intensity in his eyes steals my breath. "Someone thought they could use you as currency. Until I know the full scope of this situation, you're a target. So yes, you're getting security whether you want it or not."
I should argue. Should insist I can take care of myself. But the truth is, I'm scared. Scared of Todd and what he was willing to do. Scared of this Marcus Veil person I've never met but who apparently thought I was his for the night.
Scared of how safe I feel with a man I just met.
"Okay," I whisper.
He makes a call. Arranges for a car to pick me up from the private garage. Gives instructions about routes and discretion. When he hangs up, he turns to me.
"Five minutes."
I gather my things—my phone, my shoes, my dignity such as it is. When I'm ready, standing by the door with my purse clutched in both hands, I realize I don't want to leave.
This suite has become a bubble. A safe space where the outside world can't touch me. And Caspian—despite everything, despite the impossibility of this entire situation—feels like something solid in the chaos.
"Will I see you again?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
He's standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, and for a long moment he just looks at me. Really looks at me, like he's trying to memorize my face.
"No," he says finally.
The word hits me like a physical blow.
"Oh." I try to keep my voice steady. "Right. Of course not. This was just—tonight was—"
"You deserve better than my world, Sloane Bennett."
There's something in his tone that makes me pause. Something final and sad and almost... regretful.
And then his words sink in.
"How do you know my last name?" I never told him that. Just Sloane. The only place he could've seen Bennett was—
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. Something that looks almost like possession.
"Go home," he says quietly. "Stay safe. And Sloane?"
"Yes?"
"Lock your doors. All of them. Don't trust anyone until you hear from me."
"But you just said—"
"I said you won't see me again. I didn't say I was done protecting you."
The car is waiting when I step into the hallway, one of Caspian's people ready to escort me down. I look back once, but the door to the suite is already closing.
And as the elevator descends, taking me back to my regular life where I work at a gallery and live in a studio and definitely don't spend the night with billionaires, one thought keeps circling in my mind:
He knew my last name.
Which means at some point during this impossible night, while I was eating soup or talking about children's books or drowning in his shirt, Caspian Thorne looked me up.
Researched me.
Decided I was worth knowing more about.
And that shouldn't make my heart race the way it does.
But it absolutely does.