The Ruined Heiress and Her Ruthless Monster

The first thing Vivian felt was the jackhammer inside her skull. It wasn't a dull throb; it was a rhythmic, violent pounding that synced perfectly with the nausea rolling in her stomach. She tried to open her eyes, but the sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows was an assault. She groaned, burying her face into the pillow.

Silk.

She froze. Her pillows at the penthouse were Egyptian cotton, crisp and cool. This was slippery, warm, and smelled like sandalwood and something darker, like expensive scotch and rain.

Vivian forced her eyes open. The room was vast, minimalist, and terrifyingly unfamiliar. Charcoal gray walls, abstract art that probably cost more than a small island, and a view of the Manhattan skyline that suggested she was dangerously high up.

She shifted, and the sheet slid down her chest. She looked down.

Naked.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the hangover fog. She scrambled backward, clutching the silk sheet to her chin, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Memories of last night were a blur of neon lights, the stinging taste of tequila, and the humiliating image of Hunter, her fiancé-no, ex-fiancé-grinding against a bottle service girl on the giant screen at their own engagement party.

A door clicked open.

Vivian flinched, pulling her knees up to her chest.

Julian Blackwood was sitting in the wingback chair in the corner of the room. He hadn't just walked out of the bathroom; he had been watching her.

He was fully dressed. An impeccable charcoal three-piece suit, a crisp white shirt that looked like it had never known a wrinkle, and a dark tie. He held a tablet in one hand, his legs crossed at the ankle. He looked clinical, detached, and utterly terrifying.

"You're loud," he said, not looking up from the screen. His voice was a deep rumble, devoid of morning grit, perfectly modulated for a boardroom execution. "And you're bleeding on my sheets."

Vivian looked down. A small scrape on her shoulder was oozing slightly. She looked back up at him, her face burning. "What... why am I here? What did you do to me?"

Julian finally looked at her. His eyes were the color of a stormy sea, cold and sharp enough to cut glass. He stood up, placing the tablet on the side table with a deliberate click. He didn't move toward the bed; he kept his distance, as if she were a contagious disease.

"You showed up at my door at three in the morning, Vivian. You were crying so hard you couldn't breathe, and you vomited in my foyer plant. I didn't 'do' anything to you except prevent you from passing out in the hallway and creating a scene that would inconvenience my neighbors."

He walked to the window, turning his back to her. "My housekeeper has already disposed of the plant."

Vivian sat there, the shame washing over her hotter than the nausea. She remembered now. The desperate need to go somewhere, anywhere