Chapter 018

The heavy double doors of the penthouse suite rattled with a sudden, aggressive knock, shattering the suffocating silence between us.

I instantly pulled my hand back from the trackpad, my skin still tingling where his large, hot palm had just crushed mine against the laptop. My breath came in shallow, ragged gaps. He was standing so close I could feel the heat radiating off his chest, his shadow completely swallowing me.

"Mr. Holt?" Marcus’s voice came muffled but urgent through the thick oak. "I apologize for the interruption, but your secretary from the London transit office is on the secure line. The ground crew needs your digital signature to clear the private transport files immediately before the weather turns."

Adrian slowly straightened up. The terrifying, magnetic weight of his presence lifted just enough for the air to rush back into my lungs. He didn't look at the door. His steel-grey eyes stayed locked onto my face for one more long, agonizing second, filled with a dangerous promise that made my pulse spike.

"Stay here," he commanded, his deep baritone dropping into low, icy gravel. "Don't touch a single thing on that server, Elizabeth. If I find out you’ve messed with my data, a broken pride will be the least of your concerns."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Holt," I whispered back, forcing a cold, defiant venom into my tone even as my knees trembled beneath the desk.

He turned on his heel, buttoning his midnight-blue jacket with crisp, lethal efficiency, and strode out of the room. The heavy suite doors clicked shut behind him, leaving me completely alone in the massive, marble-floored penthouse.

The moment the latch engaged, my faux-upper-class posture collapsed.

I slumped forward against the edge of the desk, burying my face in my hands as a harsh, violent shudder racked my entire body. My heart was slamming against my ribs like a trapped animal.

Holy sht.*

I pulled my hands away and stared at them. They were shaking uncontrollably. I wasn't the elite, untouchable Elizabeth Monroe. I was Mara Collins. A girl from a crumbling apartment with a sick mother and a bank account that was permanently in the red. If Adrian Holt ever discovered that the girl he was currently terrorizing was a complete nobody and a liar who wiped down sticky bar counters for a living, he wouldn't just have me fired. He would destroy me.

I forced myself to sit up, my eyes darting around the lavish suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the grey, rain-slicked skyline of the city. Everything here screamed millions of dollars. The leather, the marble, the expensive scotch sitting on the wet bar.

It was exactly the world I wanted to conquer. But right now, it feels like a gilded cage.

Think, Mara. Think.

He thought I was a spoiled, reckless brat who threw herself at rich men for attention. It was a disgusting assumption, but it was my only shield. As long as he believed I was Clara’s niece, he would keep my "secret" to protect his business relationship with Allegra Group.

He wanted to break my pride? Fine. Let him try. I just had to survive this afternoon, get back to the office, and make sure I was never left alone in a room with him again.

My eyes fell back onto the laptop screen. The system flag was still humming in a soft, amber hue, waiting for his biometric verification.

I reached out, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I didn't want to touch it. I didn't want to give him an excuse to put his hands on me again, to feel that terrifying, suffocating heat that made my own blood run dangerously hot against my will. It was humiliating how my body reacted to him, how the sheer power rolling off him seemed to paralyze my senses.

I pulled my hand back, deciding to leave the laptop exactly as it was.

Instead, I stood up slowly, needing to move, needing to shake off the static still lingering in the air. I walked toward the massive glass windows, my cheap flats making no sound on the thick, plush rugs. The rain was coming down harder now, blurring the towering skyscrapers in the distance.

On a small mahogany side table near the window sat a beautifully crafted, vintage leather stationery box. It looked personal, completely separate from the corporate files we had brought from the office.

I shouldn't look.

But my curiosity won. I stepped closer, my hand reaching out to lightly lift the heavy leather lid. Inside lay a few fountain pens, a stack of heavy cream paper, and a single, official-looking document stamped with a dark red wax seal from a high-profile international court.

I froze, my hand hovering inches above the beautifully crafted vintage leather box. My fingers tensed, the absolute silence of the room broken only by the persistent, muffled vibration against my thigh.

My phone.

I quickly drew my hand back, slipping the cheap device out of my pocket before the ringtone could echo through the penthouse and alert the guards outside. The screen lit up, showing a name that made my chest tighten with a sudden, icy dread.

Mrs. Gable. My downstairs neighbor.

I pressed the phone to my ear, turning my back to the door and lowering my voice to an urgent whisper. "Mrs. Gable? Is everything okay?"

"Mara, thank goodness you picked up," the older woman’s voice crackled through the line, sounding breathless and genuinely worried. "I’m out in the hallway right now. There’s a strange, loud banging coming from inside your apartment. It sounded like something heavy fell, and... I think I heard your mother crying out. The door is locked, and no one is answering when I knock."

The lavish marble room, the soaring ceilings, the expensive leather—everything completely vanished from my mind. The air left my lungs in a violent rush.

"Mama," I breathed, my heart leaping straight into my throat.

"Should I call an emergency ambulance, dear? The noise stopped, but I'm truly frightened to leave her in there like this—"

"No, no, don’t call anyone yet," I panicked, my mind instantly flashing to the medical bills we couldn't afford, the public hospital that would treat her like a number, and the sheer terror of her being handled by strangers while her fever burned. "I'm close by. I'm coming right now. Mrs. Gable, please stay by the door. I’ll be there in ten minutes."

I slammed the phone shut, my hands trembling so violently I nearly dropped it.

I grabbed my handbag from the floor, my eyes darting frantically toward the heavy double doors of the suite. Adrian was still standing in the elevator lobby, completely engrossed in his call. If I walked out the front, he would see me. He would stop me, demand answers, or worse, call Clara to report that her "niece" had just sprinted out of his hotel room like a thief.

I couldn't risk the confrontation. I didn't have a single second to waste on concocting a lie.

I scanned the room, my gaze landing on a small, recessed service door tucked into the paneled wall near the wet bar—likely meant for hotel staff and room service delivery. I rushed over to it, my flats making no sound against the plush rugs. I gripped the brass handle and pulled.

It opened with a soft, oiled click, revealing a brightly lit, sterile service corridor and a set of concrete utility stairs.

I didn't hesitate. I stepped through the door, letting it latch quietly behind me, and began to sprint down the stairs, completely abandoning Adrian Holt, the high society gala, and the entire world I had fought so desperately to enter.