The first hints of moonlight crept through Isabella's penthouse windows, casting long shadows across the luxurious bedroom. Liam lay awake, his body still tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets, smooth and pristine against his skin. Next to him, Isabella slept peacefully, her usual sharp features softened by sleep.
He watched the rise and fall of her chest, remembering how she'd commanded the room even in the throes of passion. Everything about Isabella Ashworth spoke of power – from the precise way she'd undressed him to how she'd tried to dominate their encounter. But he'd matched her at every turn, proved he was her equal, made her lose that infamous composure she wore like armor. That moment when she'd finally surrendered to their mutual desire, when her carefully maintained control had shattered – it had awakened something in him he hadn't expected.
The kidnapper's words echoed in his mind: "Rich women like her, they use pretty boys like you for fun. Then they throw them away."
