The Untouchable Billionaire's Only Healing Touch

The hallway of the Pierre-Saint Hotel smelled of old money and floor wax. She stood in front of Room 2206, her hand hovering over the brass handle. Her heart wasn't racing. It was a cold, heavy stone in her chest.

She checked her reflection in the darkened screen of her phone. The mascara was perfect. The dress was a weapon-red silk, backless, designed to make a man regret everything. She wasn't Isa Faulkner, the dutiful fiancée, anymore. She was the executioner.

She tapped the Instagram icon. Go Live.

Title: A Pre-wedding Surprise for Holden.

The viewer count ticked up. 10. 500. 2,000. People love a train wreck, especially when it involves the Faulkner name.

"I'm just so excited to see him," she whispered to the camera, forcing a tremor into her voice. "He said he had a late meeting."

She swiped the key card. The light turned green.

She pushed the door open.

The room was dim, but the scene on the bed was illuminated by the city lights filtering through the sheer curtains. Tangled limbs. The frantic rhythm of skin slapping against skin.

She didn't scream. She walked in, phone raised.

Holden's head snapped up. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated terror. The blonde woman beneath him shrieked, scrambling for the duvet, but the camera had already captured her face. A runway model. Isa recognized her. Her agency had booked her for a show last season, a transaction handled entirely through proxies.

"Holden?" Isa let her voice crack. It was an Oscar-worthy performance. "This... this is your meeting?"

The comments on the screen were a blur of shock and emojis. 50,000 viewers.

"Isa!" Holden scrambled off the bed, naked and pathetic. "Isa, stop! Turn it off! You're crazy!"

She stepped back, keeping the lens steady. She panned it slowly to the nightstand. A line of white powder. An empty bottle of scotch.

"I can't believe this," she sobbed, dry-eyed behind the hand she raised to her mouth.

Heavy footsteps thundered in the corridor. The TMZ photographers she'd tipped off twenty minutes ago. Right on schedule.

Holden heard the shutters clicking before he saw them. His face went gray. He didn't look at Isa. He ran for the bathroom, abandoning the model, abandoning his dignity.

She ended the stream.

The hallway erupted. Flashes blinded her. "Isa! Isa, look here! Did you know?"

She had underestimated the swarm. There were too many of them. She couldn't go back the way she came. She kicked off her Louboutins, grabbing them by the heels, and hiked up her red silk skirt.

She ran.

Not toward the lobby, but toward the service elevator. She bypassed it and hit the button for the private lift to the Penthouse. She pulled a thin, black card from her clutch. It wasn't a hotel key. It was an executive pass tied to one of Aeon Group's more discreet acquisitions-this very hotel. The public records showed a different owner, of course.

The light turned green. The doors