Inside a suite lit by one lone lamp, Nicholas lounged half upright on the edge of the mattress, shirt open at the collar, eyes cold as winter glass.

A woman knelt on the carpet, mascara running through fresh bruises. She hugged her torn coat to her trembling shoulders.

"M-Mr. Nicholas... please, just let me go," she sobbed.

He regarded her with bored detachment, as though she were part of the décor.

"Everything that happened tonight stays buried," he said, voice flat, almost sleepy. The woman blinked, then bobbed her head so fast it blurred. "Yes."

"You may leave."

She scrambled up, snatched her purse, and fled toward the hallway light that promised escape.

Out in the corridor, she pressed against the wall, heart in her throat. She had walked in dreaming of a golden future, only to discover the fabled heir was as unreachable as a statue and twice as cold.

Fear crawled over greed. Earlier she had paid a photographer to catch them together once alcohol had softened his guard.

She dialed frantically. "Delete the shots. Do not upload anything ever!"

"Too late. I already blasted them to every outlet," the voice replied.

slid through her veins. "You're going to

saw her own face beside Nicholas' in blazing headline

the first taxi that screeched by and barked for the airport, certain only


where she had left him, eyes aimed at nothing, as if the night itself had

earlier call. A new banner

this on the news? And who is that

faint crease cut across Nicholas' brow.

feed. In less than a minute, the answer stared back at him—his own face framed by a tabloid

the phone. That woman-she's going to regret

see if another woman's voice could drown out

lips and practiced

wound up in

the

Desire never arrived, and nothing happened beyond an

picked up his phone and dialed his

news?" Nicholas asked,


headlines, and gulped. "Mr. Nicholas, I've seen it. I'll get a team on

with the person who leaked

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