Chapter 1

Ivy's POV

"Stop! You must see Mr. Voss tonight! You've been married for four years—if you just give him a child..."

Robert's voice echoed behind me.

I let out a scornful laugh, ignoring him completely, stumbling as I fled from that room. His two henchmen chased after me, and in my desperation, I kicked off my high heels, hurling them backward while running barefoot down the corridor.

Heat coursed through my entire body—not from the running, but from that drink. Just moments ago, I had accepted the glass Robert offered me, foolishly believing that when he mentioned my deceased mother, he—my biological father—still possessed a shred of conscience.

But he didn't.

He had lured me here for one purpose only: to deliver me to Voss's bed, to force me to bear him a child, all to secure more funding for his failing company.

I shoved open the stairwell door and continued climbing upward. The higher floors of this five-star hotel housed increasingly expensive suites, guests that even Robert wouldn't dare provoke.

As for whether I might offend someone... I didn't care anymore.

Anywhere but Voss's bed would do.

Sure enough, the footsteps behind me slowed, though I was nearing my own limit. Ahead, I spotted a door leading to the next floor. I pushed through it and immediately noticed a half-open door on my right—perhaps an unoccupied room awaiting housekeeping. Luck, for once, seemed on my side.

I practically crawled inside and kicked the door shut behind me. The drug flowed through my system like liquid fire, my body burning, sweat rolling down in streams. What I couldn't control, beyond the perspiration, was the secret desire stirring deep within me.

A figure materialized hazily before my eyes—tall, pinning me to the bed, nearly engulfing me completely beneath him. He carried the cool scent of cedar, and those eyes whose color I could never quite discern gazed down at me.

"Why are you here..." I murmured, then jolted back to awareness.

I was alone in this hotel room. The figure was nothing but a hallucination.

My body burned hotter still.

"Mmm..." An involuntary moan escaped my lips, and I immediately bit down hard, mortified.

I had been married for four years, yet I had never actually met my husband, Mr. Voss. Our marriage was merely a transaction—no church, no ceremony, only a signed document.

And my sole sexual experience was laughable: one night five years ago with a man whose face I never clearly saw.

But now, I desperately needed a man—whether that stranger from five years ago or Voss himself.

"Get out."

A voice cut through my reverie, cold as ice. I stared in shock, recovering a fragment of rationality.

Someone was in this room. A man.

He was positioned near the window—not standing, but seated in a wheelchair with clean lines and sharp contours, angled slightly as if he had been observing the city before I burst in. He hadn't turned on the lights; the room remained dim.

A quick scan revealed this was likely the hotel's most luxurious suite, featuring a king-size bed. Beneath the scent of expensive cologne lingered a faint medicinal undertone.

The man's face turned toward me—sharply defined jawline, dark eyes, pallid complexion. He looked noble, arrogant, and utterly devoid of emotion.

"Get out," he repeated, his tone flat and inflectionless.

Under any other circumstances, I would have apologized and left immediately. But in the room I had just fled, people were waiting to drag me to someone else's bed.

"Please," I said. "Five minutes. There are people in the hallway."

"Not my concern." He turned back to the window. "Get out."

I struggled to my feet and took two steps closer, hoping to plead my case further. But as I approached, I noticed something—the veins bulging on his hand gripping the wheelchair, sweat sliding down his forehead.

He wasn't merely cold. He was enduring something, and that endurance looked familiar.

I moved closer still, my gaze dropping to the space between his legs—impolite, perhaps, but my rationality was rapidly dissolving.

"Well," I observed the prominent bulge straining against his trousers and couldn't help moving closer. "You're just like me."

We had both been drugged. The difference was that he couldn't run. He had chosen to sit by the window and endure it.

A strange urge to laugh bubbled up inside me. I reached out and touched the hardness beneath his dress pants, coaxing him in a low voice.

"In that case, shall we... help each other?"

Rather than let my father have his way, I would rather find a man myself.

An unhealthy flush colored his pale face.

"Get away," he said.

Yet his hands remained motionless as I loosened his tie and slipped my hand inside his shirt. The muscles beneath were burning hot, his heart pounding violently under my palm. Perhaps he wanted to move, but his weakened body gave me an opportunity.

"I won't," I refused his demand, then summoned all my strength to pull him onto the nearby bed. "I know this isn't polite, and I'm sorry, but right now I really... I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you."

I said this, then climbed on top of him.

His eyes widened.

We both exhaled simultaneously.

I had to admit—though his legs might not function, the organ between them was remarkably capable. Impressively sized and terrifyingly hard, the moment I positioned myself over him, the emptiness inside me was finally filled.

Immediately, more itching sensations emerged from deep within. I narrowed my eyes in satisfaction, tightened my thighs, and began moving up and down on him.

Initially, he remained cold and rigid, loudly ordering me to stop, but I didn't listen, choosing to ignore his words. All I knew was that even the coldest man possessed a burning member, hot enough to warm my entire body.

Gradually, he softened somewhat. I leaned forward, pressed against his chest, and gently kissed his cheek.

"Sir, you don't look quite so... dissatisfied now," I murmured.

He made a sound in his throat, as if preparing to curse me again, but I contracted around him, squeezing once, and he fell silent.

His member throbbed inside me, providing all the answers he wouldn't voice.

What happened later that night remained hazy—I only knew I was exhausted yet satisfied, the tension I'd carried for years finally releasing. For the first time in so long, I slept soundly.

But one always has to wake up.

When I opened my eyes again, I noticed the ceiling was pale gray, dominated by an enormous crystal chandelier—understated, luxurious.

I lay still for three seconds, taking inventory: the ceiling, my body's soreness, the unfamiliar bedding. Then everything rushed back at once.

What had I done?

I had forced myself on a man.