CHAPTER 3 – FINDING SANCTUARY
Hunter
Iwake up in a room that costs more per night than most people make in a month, and my first thought is: I’m an irredeemable piece of shit.
The sheets are black Egyptian cotton, soft as sin, and the sun stabs through the shades in hard, gold blades.
I’m naked, hard, and my mouth tastes like last night’s whiskey and regret.
I sit up. My head’s not even pounding—billionaire hangovers are a whole different species—but the same old guilt sours the back of my throat.
I swing out of bed, grab the glass of water I left on the nightstand.
The suite is a cathedral of hedonism: smoked mirrors, a panoramic view of the city, the skyline gleaming with the promise of easy money and easier sins.
There’s an oil painting of a nude above the fireplace—tasteful, yet obscene if you stare too long.
My phone buzzes on the credenza. I snatch it up, scroll the missed texts, the market updates, the one-line demands from my board.
Nothing new. Then I see the last message, a system alert from the Sanctum concierge.
“Your guest in Suite 701 has requested an 11:30 a.m. brunch reservation. Shall we confirm?”
Fuck. That’s right. My “guest.”
Last night’s memories slot in like teeth on a gear.
I left a work dinner early, ditched countless VIPs, and drove out to the warehouse district.
On my way, I nearly ran down a girl with wild blonde hair, stumbling and lost. I pulled over, ready to call an ambulance, but when she turned her face to me—blue eyes, plush pink pout, and the kind of dazed beauty that belongs in a romance novel—I knew her instantly.
Tara.
My curvy stepsister.
The one I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for a year now.
Except Tara didn’t recognize me. Not at all. Her pupils were blown wide, and when I asked if she needed help, she just kept walking. The curvy blonde was shivering, shaking, clutching a coffee-stained sweater around her perfect tits. She had no wallet, no phone, no clue how she’d gotten there.
It hit me like a punch: Tara had lost her memory. But how? When? She was clearly an amnesiac in need of help.
But what did I do, in that split-second of cosmic opportunity?
Did I call our parents, or call the fucking police?
No. I wrapped my coat around her and told her I’d take care of everything.
Then I brought her to a hospital to get checked up, and she freaked out.
She said no, and started trembling like a deer in the headlights.
That’s when the asshole in me took over because I still didn’t call our family. Instead, I transported Tara straight to Sanctum. My club. My fortress of privilege and vice. Where they know how to keep secrets, for the right price.
Because I’m a bastard. But I’m also a problem-solver.
I rub my face, stubble scraping my palm. In the reflection, my eyes look too sharp, too pale. They belong to a predator who doesn’t apologize.
There’s a knock at the door, soft and expensive. I answer it shirtless. A server in a white jacket offers me my espresso, single-origin Ethiopian, the only thing that gets me up anymore. He bows his head, ignores my half-naked state, and leaves a silver tray on the marble bar.
I sip, watching the city spin on below, and think about Tara—no, Daisy—sleeping off her trauma just two floors down.
I should feel like a monster. I do, kind of.
But the part of me that built an empire worth billions can’t help but see the upside.
A blank slate. No family baggage. No judgment.
Just this bright, sweet girl, helpless and dependent and way too trusting for her own good.
It’s fucked, but it’s also the only thing that’s made me feel alive in years.
I pace the suite, agitated. My body’s restless, skin too tight.
I want to see her. No, I need to see her.
I want to watch Tara try to remember, want to know how long she’ll stick to the Daisy act.
I want to know what it’s like to meet her all over again, but this time, with all the power in my hands.
I’m scum. But opportunity is why I’m rich. It’s why people fear me, and why, at the end of the day, I always get what I want.
I shower, letting the water beat the knots out of my back. I’m still rock hard, the memory of her voice—”Thank you, Hunter, I feel so safe”—looping in my skull like a dirty prayer. The urge to jerk off is strong, but I want the edge. The edge makes everything sharper.
I get dressed slow, savoring the ritual.
Custom Brioni, Italian leather shoes, a watch worth more than most cars.
Power clothes. I slick my hair back, brush my teeth with a paste that smells like peppermint and costs $180 a tube.
When I’m done, the man in the mirror is pure CEO. Cold. Calculating. Hungrier than ever.
I text the concierge: “Confirm 11:30. I’ll be bringing my guest.”
The reply is instant: “Will do, Mr. McCarren. Chef has prepared a special menu.”
Perfect.
I kill an hour reviewing market data, then scan the news feeds for anything about a missing blonde girl. Nothing yet. What does Tara have on her plate? I know she works at a cafe somewhere, but have no idea where it is or what it’s called.
At 11:15, I head down. Sanctum’s hallways are plush and silent, old money everywhere you look.
Every inch is designed to remind you: you’re not like the rest. I pass a sculpture I commissioned from a disgraced artist. He made it out of tech detritus and glass, then shot it with a twelve-gauge. I loved it instantly.
Outside Suite 701, I pause. I listen. Inside, I hear only the faint sound of a shower, water running. I imagine my lush stepsister naked under that spray, droplets racing down her skin, thighs a perfect ivory. My pulse jumps.
I knock, three slow raps.
Tara opens the door a moment later, wrapped in a robe so huge it swallows her frame. Her hair is wet, plastered to her cheeks. There’s a tiny cut on her forehead, butterfly bandage already in place. She looks up at me, cautious but not afraid.
“Hi, Hunter,” she says, soft.
Fuck, even her voice. It kills me.
“Morning,” I say, stepping inside. “You sleep okay?”
She hesitates, clutching the robe tight at her throat. “I think so. I don’t remember much.”
“That’s normal after a concussion,” I tell her. “Sometimes the brain just needs time.”
She nods, then looks around at the suite, the food on the table, the enormous bed still rumpled. “I can’t believe you did all this for me.”
I give her the easy smile I save for investors and frightened little girls. “Of course. I couldn’t just leave you out there. You looked like you needed help.”
She blushes, glancing down. There’s a mole on her neck, just above the collarbone. I remember nipping it, that one night, in a moment of pure hunger. She’d moaned, tilted her head back to give me better access.
But this isn’t Tara. Not really. This is Daisy, and she’s a stranger.
I take her hand, gentle. “You hungry? They’ve got a table for us in the club dining room. It’s quiet, private.”
She nods, then bites her lip, uncertain. “But I don’t have any clothes.”
I want to tell her she’d look good in rags, but I play it cool. “We have a boutique on the fifth floor. I’ll have something sent up.”
She beams, relief flooding her face. “Thank you. I… I really appreciate this.”
God, she’s sweet. A little too sweet. I remind myself that this isn’t a game. If she remembers, even a little, the whole thing could go nuclear.
“I’ll give you some space,” I say. “Get dressed, and I’ll meet you in the restaurant okay? Take your time.”
She nods, shutting the door softly behind her.
I exhale, tension coiling tighter in my belly. I want her so badly my hands ache. I want to push her against the wall, make her remember with her body, if not her mind. But that’s the old Hunter. The one that got us into this mess.
I call the concierge again. “Send up a dress and shoes for Ms. Daisy. Tasteful, please.”
He gets it. Sanctum staff always get it, and they move fast too.
This is going to be fun.
When Daisy walks into the restaurant, for a second, I don’t move. I just stare, chest tight, the way a wolf might stare at a rabbit before remembering he’s supposed to play nice.
Her dress is soft blue, cut just above the knee, sleeveless, showing off that big bust and ivory skin. Her lips are pink, bare of gloss, and she’s nervous, working her hands together in her lap. She’s never looked more innocent. Or more ripe.
I cross the room, pretending I don’t notice the staff glancing at us from behind the bar. Sanctum’s service is flawless, but gossip here moves faster than cocaine at a tech launch. I ignore the glances and extend my hand. “Ready for brunch?”
She takes it, trusting, her palm warm and tiny in mine. “Are you sure I’m dressed okay? They sent it up—”
“You look perfect,” I say. I mean it. I mean it way too much.
The dining room is cathedral-sized, with double-height windows and crystal chandeliers so clean they don’t just reflect light, they fracture it, hurling rainbows across the floor and up the white plaster walls.
Every table is set with fresh roses, blood red and pink, arranged in crystal vases that look like they’re worth more than my first car.
Fortunately, the restaurant is empty this morning except for us.
Daisy floats in behind me, still gripping my hand. Her eyes dart everywhere, starstruck.
“This place is…” she starts.
“Ridiculous? Over the top luxurious?” I supply.
“Yeah,” she says, and giggles, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard in months.
We get a table in the sunniest spot, far from the door, with a view of the snowy city. The waiter bows, calls her “Miss Daisy,” and offers a menu hand-lettered in gold ink. Daisy stares at it like she’s holding a magic spell.
I order for both of us—omelets, fruit, more coffee. When the waiter leaves, Daisy leans in.
“I don’t want to be rude,” she whispers. “But what is this place? Is it a country club?”