Chapter 2

Sela

"I know it's your birthday, Sela." He sighed, long and put-upon, like I was a child asking for something unreasonable. "Happy birthday. But you saw what happened out there. Ivy's upset about her dress, and I need to stay and smooth things over. You understand, right?"

I understood. I understood that I would always come second to Ivy's feelings. I understood that my discomfort would always matter less than her convenience. I understood that I had spent six years waiting for Julian to choose me, and he never would.

"Right," I said. "I understand."

"Great. Text me when you get home safe." He hung up before I could respond.

I stared at my phone for a long moment, watching the call duration blink at me.

Forty-three seconds. That's how long it took for Julian to dismiss six years of my life.

I laughed. It came out sharp and bitter, echoing off the marble walls. I laughed until my ribs ached and tears streamed down my face, mixing with the mascara and making a mess of my reflection. When I finally stopped, I felt hollowed out. Empty. But also, strangely, lighter.

I washed my face with cold water, scrubbing away the makeup until I looked like a ghost of myself. Then I left the restroom and made my way back through the corridor. As I passed the lounge where the party was still going, I kept my eyes straight ahead, refusing to look through the glass doors at the people inside.

I wasn't going home.

I couldn't face another round of my mother's concerned questions that were really accusations in disguise, couldn't stomach my father's disappointed sighs about how I needed to be more understanding of Julian's position. Going home meant fielding calls about why I'd left the party early, meant listening to lectures about compromise and patience, meant being told—again—that girls like me should be grateful Julian had stayed this long.

The elevator arrived with a soft ding. I stepped inside and stared at the panel of buttons, my vision slightly blurred from the tequila.

I should have pressed L for lobby. Should have gone down to the ground floor, walked out of this hotel, and never looked back.

Instead, my finger drifted upward and pressed the button for the top floor. Just to see what would happen. Just because the tequila said I could.

The doors closed. The elevator rose.

When it stopped, I stepped out into a hallway that looked nothing like the floor I'd left—quieter, emptier, the carpet thicker and the lighting dimmer. The tequila caught up with me then, making the floor tilt dangerously. I stumbled down the corridor, my ruined heels sinking into the plush carpet, until my foot caught on nothing at all. I pitched forward, crashing heavily against the imposing double doors at the very end of the hall.

Before I could peel my face off the polished wood and make a run for it, a voice drifted through the thick oak.

"Come in. It's unlocked."

I froze.

"Just leave the wine on the kitchen island," the voice continued. It was deep, resonant, with a gravelly timbre that vibrated right through the wood and straight into my chest. It was the kind of voice that demanded absolute obedience, yet somehow made you want to lean in closer just to hear it again.

A smart, sober girl would have whispered a breathless "sorry" and bolted for the elevator. But today was my twenty-sixth birthday, I had spent the last six years being exactly the good girl everyone expected me to be, and right now, I was drunk on tequila, heartbreak, and the inexplicable pull of that phantom voice.

I pushed the heavy door open and stepped inside.

The suite was dark, lit only by the glow of the city through floor-to-ceiling windows. Expensive furniture, gleaming marble countertops, the kind of space that cost more per night than I made in a month. I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. That's when I heard the water—running water, coming from somewhere deeper in the suite.

I drifted toward the sound without thinking, floating down a short hallway toward a door that was slightly ajar.

"I said, leave it on the island," the voice called out again, sharper this time, carrying a dangerous edge over the sound of splashing water. "And don't even think about wandering back here. I don't make a habit of closing doors when I shower."

But my feet had a mind of their own, and I was already standing in the doorway.

The bathroom was enormous, all white marble and gold fixtures and a massive glass-enclosed shower. But what caught my attention was the man stepping out of the bathtub. He had his back to me, water sluicing down his spine in rivulets. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, muscles that moved under his skin like something sculpted. He reached for a towel on the rack.

Then he turned around, and the fury in his eyes told me he'd been expecting a careless room service attendant he could unleash his anger on.

Instead, he got me: a crying, mascara-streaked girl in a champagne-soaked dress, staring at him with the wide, unblinking eyes of a startled owl.

He froze.

He looked to be around forty, maybe a year or two past it—the kind of devastatingly handsome that only came with age and ruthless discipline. Dark hair silvering at the temples. Sharp features carved from stone. Eyes some impossible shade between gray and blue. There was a hardness to his face that Julian would never have, a cold authority that made the air feel thinner.

And he was completely, gloriously naked—impressively so, in a way that made my alcohol-soaked brain short-circuit even further before I could stop myself from noticing.

His gaze swept over me, taking in my ruined state, his aristocratic face shifting from mild annoyance to pure, bewildered shock. The towel hung forgotten in his hand.

"Who the fuck are you?" he demanded, his deep voice cracking like a whip in the tiled room.

I should have been embarrassed. I should have stammered an apology and fled. But the tequila had completely short-circuited my brain, and I just stood there, swaying slightly, staring at him with wide, unfocused eyes.

"You're..." I blinked, trying to form a coherent apology, but only the absolute, embarrassing truth spilled out. "You are... ridiculously beautiful."

His jaw tightened. The shock vanished, replaced instantly by cold fury as he snatched the towel and wrapped it around his waist. "I said, who the fuck are you? Get out."

"I'm going," I stammered, my hands gripping the doorframe to keep the room from spinning, completely failing to step back. "I just... my feet aren't listening. I need a second. To, um. Process."

"Process what?"

"That." I gestured clumsily toward his chest, my cheeks burning with a delayed, drunken flush. "I didn't know real people actually looked like that. I thought it was just... CGI."

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or utter disbelief. Then he pointed a long, commanding finger toward the door.

"You have five seconds to leave before I call security," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy murmur. "Five. Four. Three—"