Chapter 1

Serena

The floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite stretched the entire length of the room, showcasing Manhattan's glittering skyline like a kingdom laid out for conquest. Below, the city pulsed with life—yellow cabs bleeding through streets, office towers blazing with ambition, the whole damn world spinning on its axis of greed and desire.

I didn't care about any of it.

My focus had narrowed to the man whose arms I was currently draped across, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along my bare thigh. The jacuzzi bubbled around us, steam rising into the cool night air, while a jazz saxophone purred from hidden speakers—something low and smoky that matched the heat building between us.

Lance Lawson.

Even his name tasted like power on my tongue.

I tilted my head back, studying him through my lashes. The champagne had painted everything in soft focus, but some details cut through with perfect clarity: the sharp angle of his jaw, shadowed with the suggestion of stubble. Gray-blue eyes that reminded me of winter storms—beautiful and absolutely merciless. Water droplets traced slow paths down his bare chest.

God, he was devastating.

And he knew it. Worse, I knew he knew it, and I still couldn't bring myself to care.

His hand moved from my thigh to the small of my back, callused fingers surprisingly rough against my skin. Investment bankers weren't supposed to have hands like this—these were the hands of someone who'd built something, broken something, controlled something with physical force.

"You're staring," he murmured, voice like aged whiskey. Smooth, expensive, and absolutely lethal.

"Am I?" I heard myself purr, and almost didn't recognize my own voice.

When had I become this woman? This stranger who draped herself across powerful men in penthouse suites while jazz played and champagne bubbled in forgotten glasses?

Tonight. The champagne hadn't made me someone new—it had just stripped away the mask.

I couldn't stop the smile that curved my lips. Twenty-two years of being the good daughter, the understanding girlfriend, the girl who always put everyone else first—and here I was, in a suite that probably cost more than my family's monthly mortgage, wrapped around a man whose reputation could freeze blood at fifty paces.

The memory of how we'd ended up here flickered through my champagne-soaked brain. The dive bar in Tribeca—too upscale to be truly gritty, too dark to be respectable. I'd been working on my third martini when some finance bro had knocked his beer directly onto my dress. I'd turned to snap at him, and found myself face-to-face with Lance Lawson instead.

I'd known who he was immediately. You didn't move in New York's elite circles—even on the edges, like I did—without recognizing the Ice King of Wall Street. What I hadn't expected was the electricity that crackled between us when his eyes met mine. No apology, no explanation. Just: "That dress was hideous anyway. Let me buy you a better one."

The arrogance should have repelled me. Instead, I'd laughed—actually laughed—and said something stupid like "Does that line usually work?"

"I don't use lines," he'd replied, already signaling for another drink. "I make statements of fact."

Three hours later, we were here.

My heart kicked against my ribs as another thought crystallized through the haze: This man—this devastating, dangerous, absolutely forbidden man—wasn't just anyone.

He was Wesley's uncle. Former legal guardian. The executor of his parents' estate since the accident.

The person my boyfriend of three years called when he needed bail money or business advice or someone to clean up whatever mess his spoiled ass had created this week.

The realization should have sobered me. Should have sent me scrambling for my clothes and whatever remained of my dignity.

Instead, it made everything hotter.

There was something deliciously wrong about this. The golden boy's perfect girlfriend, wrapped around the guardian who terrified him. The good girl doing very, very bad things. The power of it rushed through my veins like a drug, and I found myself leaning closer, my hand splaying across Lance's chest. His heart beat steady and strong beneath my palm—no acceleration, no hint of the chaos currently tearing through my own system.

Of course. Men like Lance Lawson didn't lose control.

"Careful," he said, voice dropping to something that might have been warning or promise. "Keep looking at me like that, and I won't be responsible for what happens next."

His fingers tightened on my hip, thumb stroking the curve of my waist. My breath hitched—an embarrassingly obvious tell I couldn't control.

"Maybe I'm counting on it," I whispered, surprising myself with my own boldness.

His eyes darkened, storm clouds gathering, and his hand moved to cup my face with surprising gentleness. For a moment, I thought he might kiss me. Wanted him to kiss me. Needed—

My phone exploded with sound, shattering the moment like a brick through glass.

I should have ignored it. Should have let it ring. But twenty-two years of conditioning made me reach for the device on the marble ledge beside us, water dripping from my fingers.

Wesley's name flashed across the screen.

"Hey—" I barely got the word out before his voice slammed into my ear.

"WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?"

I flinched at the volume, pulling the phone away slightly. Lance's expression shifted—something cold sliding behind his eyes as he watched me.

"Serena!" Wesley's voice cracked with that particular brand of entitled fury I'd grown too familiar with. "I told you to pick up a gift for Vanessa! Her party started an hour ago and you're—what? Ignoring me? Do you have any idea how humiliating—"

Something inside me snapped.

Maybe it was the champagne. Maybe it was the way Lance's hand had gone still on my waist, all warmth leaching away. Maybe it was simply that I'd finally hit my limit—the point where you either break or become someone new.

"Oh, the gift," I said, my voice coming out cold and sharp as ice chips. "Yeah, I looked for one. Checked a couple bars downtown. Even stopped by a hotel boutique. Funny thing—couldn't find anything quite right."

The silence on the other end stretched for exactly three seconds.

"What the fuck did you just say? Bars? A hotel?" His voice climbed to a near-shout. "You're telling me you've been out drinking while I—"

"While you what, asshole?" The words escaped before I could stop them, bitter and burning. "While you forgot it was our three-year anniversary? While you dragged me to your precious Vanessa's birthday party like some kind of accessory? While you screamed at me for not bringing a gift to celebrate another woman?"

A low male voice rumbled something in the background on Wesley's end—probably one of his trust fund buddies. I heard him snap "Shut up!" before returning his attention to me.

"Where are you right now? Whose room are you in?"

Lance shifted beside me, and I became acutely aware of his state of undress—the expensive boxer briefs that left very little to imagination, the muscled expanse of his chest and abdomen, the way the low lighting carved shadows across his body like a sculptor's vision of masculine power.

His expression had transformed completely. The heat, the almost-tenderness from moments before—gone. In its place sat something arctic and assessing, the face that had reportedly made grown men weep during hostile takeovers.

"Are you spoken for?" His voice cut through the phone chaos, quiet and absolutely lethal.