Chapter 2

The rain came out of nowhere.

One minute, clear Miami evening. The next, absolute downpour. The wipers couldn't keep up with the water streaming across the windshield.

"Shit," I stared at the wall of water between us and the hotel entrance. "That came fast."

Lorenzo killed the engine. "We need to get inside. Forecast says it'll last for hours."

Hours. Alone with him.

My pulse kicked up, and I told myself it was just nerves.

The Racing Club hotel lobby was packed with stranded guests. Through the rain-blurred windows, I watched people sprint across the entrance, coming out soaked.

"They're probably booked solid," I muttered.

Lorenzo already had his phone out. "Let me handle it."

Ten minutes later we were in the elevator, both dripping from our dash through the downpour. Lorenzo had somehow secured the last room—penthouse level, naturally.

'He always makes things happen.'

But the second the elevator doors opened, familiar laughter echoed down the hallway.

Preston and Catalina stood outside the room right next to ours.

My stomach dropped like a stone.

"This can't be coincidence," I said quietly, hands curling into fists.

Catalina spotted us first. Her eyes widened slightly before she turned and murmured something to Preston. He pivoted, that goddamn smile already forming.

"Well, look who it is." Preston's voice dripped false cheer. "Neighbors for the night. Small world, huh?"

'About as small as you planned it to be.'

Lorenzo's hand settled on my lower back, warm and possessive. The touch sent heat straight through me.

"Small world," he repeated, tone absolutely flat.

We unlocked our doors in tense silence. The second ours clicked shut behind me, I leaned against it.

"They planned this," I said, voice shaking with anger. "They absolutely did."

Lorenzo was already checking the windows, the balcony door. "Walls are thin. We'll hear everything."

As if on cue, Preston's voice carried through the wall, deliberately loud: "Catalina, remember that birthday four years ago? Emergency training session, and she bought the whole thing?"

My chest went tight.

That birthday. He'd disappeared for hours, leaving me alone at the restaurant in the dress I'd bought special.

Catalina's voice came next, just as vicious: "God, you should've seen her face when the waiter asked if she was still waiting. Third time he came by."

"She believed every word," Preston laughed. "Every single time. And now look—sold herself off to the highest bidder. We all know what Lorenzo's really getting out of this deal."

This time it wasn't hurt. It was pure rage.

'Sold out? He's calling ME a sellout? After what he did?'

"At least she found someone willing to pay," Catalina added, venom in every word. "Wonder what she's doing for him to make it worth his while."

My hands clenched into fists. They wanted me to hear every word, enjoying my pain like they had three years ago.

"Val." Lorenzo was watching me, jaw tight. "Don't give them what they want."

That's when I heard it—Preston's voice through the wall, on the phone, dropping to a stage whisper: "Yeah, room 1247. I think you've got a... professional situation going on up here, if you catch my drift."

My blood went cold.

He was calling the hotel.

"Motherfucker," I breathed.

I was still fuming when the knock came. Five minutes. That's all it took.

Lorenzo checked the peephole, expression going hard.

"Hotel manager."

The door opened to reveal a nervous-looking man in a suit, clipboard in hand.

"Terribly sorry to disturb you." The manager looked like he'd rather be anywhere else. "We received a complaint regarding... potential unauthorized commercial activity of a personal nature in this room."

My brain stalled. "I'm sorry, what?"

"The caller suggested—" He cleared his throat. "—that there might be escort services being conducted. We're required to investigate all such claims."

Preston had actually called in a prostitution complaint. He actually did that.

Lorenzo stepped between the manager and me, voice going ice cold: "That's a serious accusation. Do you have any evidence?"

"No, sir, but we're required to follow up on—"

"Who made the complaint?" Lorenzo's voice went deadly quiet.

The manager shifted uncomfortably. "The caller requested anonymity."

"I see." Lorenzo took one step forward, moving like a predator. "This anonymous caller—they wouldn't happen to be staying right next door?"

The manager's face flushed. "I can't say—"

"Then perhaps you should investigate their room," Lorenzo said calmly. "False reports are grounds for removal, aren't they?"

The manager looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. "Of course, sir. If the complaint is unfounded—"

"It is," Lorenzo said firmly. "I suggest you inform your anonymous caller that harassment won't be tolerated."

"Absolutely. My apologies again."

The manager retreated fast.

Lorenzo shut the door and turned to me. I was shaking—rage and humiliation mixing into something explosive.

"He actually..." I couldn't finish.

"Called you a whore," Lorenzo finished coldly. "Yes."

Muffled laughter came from next door. They'd heard everything and were celebrating.

"They're going to pay for this," I said quietly. And I meant it.

Lorenzo's expression went deadly calm. "They will."

I sank onto the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. "I actually thought she was my friend. Catalina knew what Preston did to me, and she's helping him do it all over again."

"Some people," Lorenzo said softly, moving closer, "only show who they really are when they think they can get away with it."

That's when the sounds started from next door.

First muffled conversation, then laughter. Then something completely different.

The rhythmic thump of a headboard against the wall. Catalina gasping Preston's name.

My face burned with embarrassment and fury. "You've got to be kidding me."

The sounds got louder—intimate, explicit sounds that made my stomach turn. Every moan deliberate, performed.

'They're putting on a show. Making sure I hear every goddamn second.'

"They're seriously..." I couldn't finish.

Lorenzo's jaw was tight. "Making sure you hear it."

More thumping. Catalina's voice rising, theatrical.

I shot to my feet, hands balled into fists. "I'm going to kill them."

"Wait." Lorenzo caught my arm, something calculating in his eyes. "Two can play this game."

I stared at him, breathing hard under the intensity of those dark eyes. "What do you mean?"

His hand suddenly settled on my waist, pulling me close. The contact made my knees weak.

"Trust me," he murmured against my ear.

Then his mouth was on my neck.

The sensation shot through me—electric, unexpected.

This was supposed to be fake. A performance.

So why did it feel so real?

His mouth was warm, firm, and when his teeth grazed my skin, I gasped—loud enough to carry.

"Just like that," he whispered, breath hot against my throat. "Let them hear."

His hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back as he kissed along my collarbone. I bit my lip trying to stay quiet, but the way he was touching me made thinking impossible.

The sounds next door seemed to pause.

"You're very talented at this," he murmured against my skin, voice rough in a way that didn't sound fake at all.

This was supposed to be an act. Payback. A performance.

So why did his touch feel like it was burning through my skin? Why wasn't I pulling away?

Lorenzo's hands cupped my face, those dark eyes intense and hungry. "Ready?"

But before I could answer, his mouth was on mine.

The kiss was hard, claiming, and my body responded before my brain caught up. My hands fisted in his shirt as he backed me against the wall.

When his mouth found that spot below my ear, my knees went weak.

"Lorenzo—" His name escaped my lips, louder than intended, echoing through the room.

Dead silence from next door.

Then his teeth scraped across my throat and I couldn't hold back anymore.

"Fuck," I gasped, not caring who heard.

Preston's voice cut through the wall, sharp and angry: "What the hell are you doing over there?"

Lorenzo lifted his head, breathing hard, those dark eyes locked on mine. Without looking away, he answered, voice perfectly calm but edged with steel:

"What we should be doing."

The silence from next door was deafening.

For the first time in three years, I felt like I'd won.