Aria's POV
"Are you really going through with this?"
Maya's voice trembled through the speaker as I stood before the cracked mirror in my dorm room. The red silk dress clung to every curve of me like a second skin. I didn't look like the awkward freshman who'd moved in three months ago. I looked like a woman who'd sealed her fate—and forfeited her innocence—in a private suite with a billionaire.
"I have to," I whispered, my voice barely louder than the hum of the hall outside. I applied the final stroke of deep scarlet lipstick, wincing at how heavy it felt on my lips. "For Lila."
Behind me, Maya let out a shuddering breath. I imagined her pacing, phone pressed to her ear, heart breaking on my behalf. "You shouldn't have to give this up—not like this."
A tear slipped down my cheek, and I blinked it away. "She shouldn't have to die."
Silence. Then, like a soft landing, Maya's voice: "Text me the second you're done. I mean it."
"I will," I promised, though deep down I knew I might not be able to.
I hung up, tucked my phone into my clutch, and ran a shaky hand through my hair. I'd borrowed Maya's killer stilettos—ten extra confident centimeters. I hadn't worn heels since prom. Now, they pinched my feet and forced me to stand taller in more ways than one.
The Eleveon Hotel's chrome marquee lit the night sky like an invitation—and a warning. My cab pulled to a stop beneath a canopy of sparkling lights. I paid the driver with trembling fingers and stepped onto the polished marble drive. The doorman tipped his cap but said nothing as I swept past him, a vision in scarlet and fear.
Inside, the lobby stretched cavernous, every surface gleaming. Crystal chandeliers hung over marble floors that echoed with the tap of my heels as I headed for the elevator. My reflection flickered in the mirrored walls: flushed cheeks, wide eyes, and lips stained red—like blood, I thought numbly.
Floor 17. Room 1726.
The elevator chimed on my floor. The doors slid open to a hushed corridor lined with plush carpeting. Each step felt heavier than the last, as though gravity itself had joined in my panic. My breaths came quick and shallow.
When I reached 1726, my hand hovered over the polished chrome handle. My heart rattled against my ribs like an animal desperate to escape its cage. I closed my eyes, whispered a silent prayer for strength, then knocked—three sharp raps, like a countdown.
The door swung open almost instantly. Standing in the threshold was Damon Westin.
He wore a black silk shirt, the top two buttons undone, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the sinew of his forearms. No tie, no jacket—his power stripped back to raw confidence. His eyes, those storm-gray eyes, locked onto me the moment I stepped inside. I saw surprise there, and suspicion. Not desire—at least not yet.
"You actually came," he said, voice low and measured.
"I said I would." My own voice sounded foreign in my ears.
He stepped aside. "Come in."
I crossed the threshold, the door clicking shut behind me. The suite smelled of aged whiskey and leather-bound books. Soft jazz drifted from hidden speakers. A crackling fire lent warmth to the ivory walls and dark wood floors.
He motioned toward a sleek sofa near the fireplace. "Sit."
My legs shook so badly I wavered before the chair, then lowered into it as though my limbs had forgotten how to move. Damon moved to the minibar, hesitated, then poured two glasses of wine. He handed one to me.
"Drink."
I stared at the ruby liquid as though it were poison. "To what?"
He lifted his glass. "To no regrets."
I swallowed hard, lifted the glass, and sipped. The wine was smooth, almost too easy to drink—velvety warmth sliding down my throat. Three sips later, the edges of the room softened, the firelight dancing in slow motion. My limbs grew heavy, as though I were sinking into the plush seat.
I blinked up at him. "Is this… strong?"
Damon's gaze sharpened. He set down his glass and crossed to me in three long strides. He took my glass from my hand. "Just enough to steady you." His thumb brushed my wrist, and a shock of awareness shot through me. "If you don't feel well—"
"I'm fine," I lied.
He knelt beside me and brushed a strand of hair from my face. His fingers lingered at my jawline. "Are you sure you want this?"
I closed my eyes, swallowed the lump in my throat. "Yes."
He rose and reached behind the sofa, lifting a small black case. My breath caught. He placed it on the coffee table, opened it, and withdrew a contract—impeccably printed on heavy ivory stock. Under a single line in bold, elegant type: Terms of Engagement.
I tried–and failed–to steady my hand. Heart pounding, I picked up the pen he offered. The first line read: One night only. Non-negotiable. No attachments. Underneath, my name in block capitals.
With a breath that tasted of fear and resolve, I signed.
Damon closed the folder and stood. His height dwarfed me in the low light. He regarded me for a long moment, as though pondering whether I knew what I'd done. Then he straightened.
"Follow me."
He led me by the hand—my palm sticky, thumb slick against his fingers—through the suite to the bedroom. A king-size bed dominated the space, dressed in crisp white linens. He paused at the foot of the bed and turned to me.
"Take off your dress."
My pulse thundered. I dared a glance at his face—no lustful grin, no lascivious hunger. Just that cool, appraising calm.
"Please," he said, voice softer now, almost gentle.
Hands trembling, I began unzipping the back of the dress. The red silk slipped down my shoulders, pooling at my feet. I kicked it aside and stood in nothing but my lace lingerie. Chills raced across my bare skin.
Damon set his hand at my lower back and guided me toward the bed. "Lie down."
I obeyed, breath hitching as the mattress swallowed me. He climbed in beside me, the sheets whispering around us.
His mouth found mine with gentle insistence, lips exploring. I melted into him. Fear and desire tangled so tightly I couldn't separate one from the other. His hands roamed—never cruel, never rushed—learning curves and hollow planes, etching my body into his memory.
Every nerve in my body sang. I closed my eyes and let the world slip away, leaving only heat and friction and the taste of him on my lips.
Then he paused, pressed his forehead to mine. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," I whispered, voice ragged. "Just… be gentle."
He nodded once. "Always."
Time fractured. I remember his breath, his whispered encouragements, the firelight tracing patterns across our skin. I remember the dizzying sensation when he finally claimed me, the shudder that tore through me, the way his name became a prayer on my lips.
I remember falling into that blur of sensation, losing myself in him—losing myself entirely.
When I woke, the room was bathed in pale dawn light. The fire had died, leaving embers that glowed faintly. The sheets were tangled around us, smelling like him—clean linen and something darker, musk and promise.
Damon was gone. An empty glass sat on the bedside table. I sat up, limbs heavy as stone.
On the pillow lay a sleek black envelope. My heart stuttered. I reached for it with shaky fingers. Inside was a check—one hundred thousand dollars in neat handwriting.
Beneath it, a note penned in sharp, elegant script:
> You were stronger than I expected. Consider your sister saved.
But Aria—this isn't over.
– D.
I pressed the paper to my chest. Saved. And yet… I felt anything but free.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Maya. I hesitated, then slid my finger to answer.
"Aria?" Her voice crackled. "Are you okay? What—"
Before I could speak, the suite door clicked. My heart leapt into my throat.
Footsteps paused in the entryway. A woman's laugh—cold, amused.
"Of all the whores in New York," she purred, voices echoing off the pristine walls, "he had to pick you."
I turned. My pulse slammed.
There, silhouetted in the doorway, stood Celeste Langford—Damon's ex—eyes glittering like shards of ice.
In one hand, she held her phone; in the other, a flash of reflected light—a camera lens.
Her smile curved, cruel and perfect. "This was a mistake," she said, voice silk over steel. She snapped a photo of me on his bed—naked, vulnerable, exposed.
"Let's see how much he wants you after the world sees this."
My blood ran cold.