Captive Heart: The Dangerous CEO's Trap

Brenda Vincent opened her eyes.

A sharp, stabbing pain shot through her temples. Her mouth tasted like stale alcohol and regret. She tried to sit up, but a heavy weight pinned her waist to the mattress.

She froze.

Her breath hitched in her throat. She slowly turned her head. The sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains of the Four Seasons suite illuminated the man sleeping next to her.

His sharp jawline. The straight bridge of his nose. The dark, messy hair resting against the white pillowcase.

Brenda's stomach dropped. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin ice-cold.

It was Bryon Reeves.

The CEO of Reeves Global. The man whose face dominated the front pages of the Wall Street Journal. More terrifyingly, he was the older brother of Aiden Reeves, the difficult, wealthy student she tutored three times a week.

Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Panic clawed at her throat. She remembered the charity gala last night. She remembered her boyfriend, Emery, ignoring her to flirt with the dean's daughter. She remembered drinking three glasses of champagne on an empty stomach.

She remembered the dark corner, the rough hands, the smell of cedar and tobacco, and the tearing of silk.

Brenda bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. She had to get out. Now.

She held her breath and carefully, millimeter by millimeter, lifted his heavy, muscular arm off her waist. Her fingers trembled. She placed his arm on the mattress.

Bryon let out a low grunt. His dark eyebrows twitched together.

Brenda squeezed her eyes shut. She stopped breathing entirely. Her muscles locked up, ready to bolt.

A few seconds passed. The steady rhythm of his breathing returned.

She let out a silent exhale and slid off the edge of the massive bed. Her bare feet hit the thick carpet. She looked around the chaotic suite. Her clothes were scattered everywhere.

She spotted her silk blouse near the nightstand. She picked it up. Three buttons were missing, the fabric torn near the collar. A flush of deep, humiliating red crept up her neck.

Out in the hallway, the faint sound of a housekeeping cart rolling by broke the silence.

Brenda rushed to pull the ruined blouse over her head. She clutched the torn collar together with one hand. She found her skirt and stepped into it, her hands shaking so badly she could barely pull up the zipper.

She scanned the floor for her handbag. She found it near the sofa. She dug inside for her phone. The screen was cracked, and it was completely dead. Black. Useless.

She shoved her feet into her high heels. She looked back at the bed. Bryon Reeves was still asleep, looking deceptively calm.

A wave of intense self-disgust washed over her. She had slept with the most dangerous man in New York because she was sad about a mediocre boyfriend. She needed to make it clear that this meant nothing. That she was not