Chapter 1 #3
I blinked, disoriented by the complete transformation from the tender lover of last night. "What?"
"Don't play innocent." He sat up, not bothering to keep the sheets covering his magnificent chest. "How much did Victor pay you?"
Was last night a dream? Why was he acting so different all of a sudden? That intensity, the connection? All of it meant nothing to him?
"Victor?" I clutched the sheet to my chest, suddenly aware of my nakedness. "I don't know any Victor."
His laugh was harsh, devoid of humor. "Right. You just happened to be at that exact bar, happened to catch me at my most vulnerable." His eyes narrowed. "How convenient."
Humiliation burned through me, followed quickly by anger. "I don't know what you're talking about, but I'm not being paid by anyone. I was there, drowning my sorrows after my boyfriend dumped me, and you stumbled into me. Remember?"
Something flickered in his eyes—doubt, perhaps—but was quickly replaced by cold certainty. "Save it. Victor's been trying to trap me in a scandal for months. Drugging my drink at the bar was clever, I'll admit. It trimmed off any and all inhibition I had."
"Drugged?" I stared at him in shock. "I didn't drug you! I think you were already drugged when you ran into me."
He ignored me, reaching for his wallet on the nightstand. "How much? Ten thousand? Twenty?" He pulled out a checkbook, pen poised. "Name your price to disappear and never mention this night again."
I felt like I'd been slapped. Tears pricked at my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. Not in front of him.
"I don't want your money," I hissed, scrambling out of bed and grabbing my scattered clothes. "I don't know who you think I am, but I'm not some... some prostitute or spy or whatever the hell you're implying."
Lucas watched me dress with detached interest, as if I were some mildly amusing insect. When I was fully clothed, he stood, not bothering to cover himself as he walked to the desk, wrote something, and tore it out.
"One hundred thousand dollars," he said, extending the check toward me. "More than generous, I'd say. Keep this between us. I can't afford to let it get out."
I stared at the check, then at his face, searching for any trace of the man who had held me so tenderly just hours before. There was nothing—only cold disdain.
With shaking hands, I took the check, looked at it for one long moment, then tore it into tiny pieces, letting them flutter to the plush carpet between us.
"Go to hell," I said to him, drawing out as much venom as I could.
Something shifted in his expression—surprise, maybe even respect—but it was gone before I could be sure. I turned and fled, grabbing my purse from where it had fallen by the door, desperate to escape before the tears could fall.
In the elevator, I slumped against the cold metal wall, struggling to catch my breath, but no air came—only tears.
Hot, silent tears that spilled freely now that I was alone, no longer forced to hold myself together.
I had tried to wear a mask of strength back in that room, to swallow the sting of his words and the weight of his gaze, but out here, stripped of any pretense, the rejection crashed into me like a blow to the chest.
It wasn't just what he said—though the accusation alone cut deep, slicing through whatever fragile trust had begun to form between us.
It was the jarring contrast that shattered me: the man who had held me so tenderly the night before, who had kissed me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered, had now turned on me with eyes full of suspicion, his words dripping contempt, as though our intimacy had meant nothing. As though I had meant nothing.
I couldn't reconcile the two versions of him.
The one who made love to me like he was tethering himself to my soul, and the one who just dismissed me like I was disposable.
And yet, somewhere in that tangled, painful mess, I knew I had felt something real, something that had rooted itself deep in me.
But now? Now I didn't know what was real anymore.
My heart was a ringing, aching mess, pounding so violently in my chest it was hard to think.
And all I could feel was that old, familiar ache—the feeling of being discarded yet again, like a used napkin, unwanted and forgotten.
My phone buzzed in my purse, and I pulled it out automatically.
A notification lit up the screen: "Your interview with Hawkins Financial Group has been confirmed for 10:00 AM today. We look forward to meeting you."
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. Perfect. Just perfect. In three hours, I had to be professional and composed for the most important interview of my life, when all I wanted to do was curl up and die of shame.
But if there was one thing life had taught me, it was how to pull myself together after being knocked down. I would go to that interview. I would nail it. And I would never, ever think of Lucas or his amber eyes again.
If only I knew how impossible that promise would prove to be.