"Wake up, slut."
The voice was low and teasing, almost affectionate — but sharp enough that Freya stirred in bed, frowning into the blanket tangled around her.
Had she heard that right? Or was this one of those weird half-asleep hallucinations.
"Wake up, or I'll throw you out."
Okay, definitely real.
Her eyes snapped open. She bolted upright, clutching the blanket to her chest as instinct kicked in.
She was barely dressed — just a camisole and boyshorts — and the man standing at the foot of the bed wasn't helping.
He was watching her, but not in a creepy way — more like he was trying to figure out a difficult math problem.
He leaned casually against a marble pillar, like he owned the whole damn world. Broad shoulders, muscular frame outlined by a silk robe that looked more expensive than her entire college education.
His face was rugged, sharp-jawed, dark-eyed – the kind of face that made it hard to breathe right.
Freya's mouth went dry.
"Who... who are you?" she croaked, her voice still heavy with sleep and last night's drinks.
The man smirked.
"Arnold," he said. "Arnold Connor."
And the name hit her like a punch.
Of course. Arnold Connor. Billionaire. Tabloid ghost. Media darling.
Exactly the kind of man she wasn't supposed to wake up half-naked in bed with.
"But aren't I supposed to be the one asking questions?" Arnold said in a playful tone. In two easy steps, he closed the distance between them. He towered over her, so close she could feel the heat of his body.
Freya, who had faced down politicians, CEOs, and corrupt cops, suddenly found herself... looking down at the blanket instead of into his eyes.
Pathetic.
He smelled good, too — that ridiculous kind of expensive cologne only rich men wore, all dark spice and clean skin.
It made her dizzy.
"Do you have any idea what happened last night?" he asked.
Freya pressed her fingers to her forehead, trying to force the memories out of hiding. But it was a blur. Drinks? Yes. She remembered drinks.
And then... nothing.
"Last... night?" she echoed weakly.
Arnold chuckled, voice almost amused – almost.
"You don't remember, huh?" he said, leaning down until his breath brushed her ear.
"We got up to some very naughty things. You were enthusiastic, if I recall correctly."
Her face burned.
She yanked the blanket tighter around herself.
"No. I don't remember anything," she snapped.
He pulled back and gave a lazy shrug, as if it didn't really matter to him either way – which somehow made her angrier.
"Where... where is here exactly?" she asked, trying to salvage her dignity.
Arnold turned toward the window, casually adjusting his robe.
"Grand Plaza Hotel," he said. "Presidential suite. Top floor. Best view in the city."
He flashed her a quick grin over his shoulder.
"Pretty classy for a one-night stand, don't you think?"
Freya gritted her teeth.
"At least it's not your bedroom," she muttered under her breath.
He heard her. His smile widened.
God, she hated him already.
"Did you drug me?" she blurted, the words out before she could stop them.
Arnold barked a short laugh and shook his head.
"Darling, I don't need to drug women to get them into my bed. You came willingly. Begged, actually."
He winked.
His confidence made her blood boil and she wanted to throw something at his stupidly perfect face. Instead, her stomach churned.
She had never been with anyone before, and the thought that she had lost her virginity to a stranger, and she had no memory of it was utterly unfathomable.
Still, she couldn't deny the evidence before her – she was lying half-naked in bed, no context — just this overwhelming man claiming they'd "done things."
And the worst part?
Her body was reacting to him, heat pooling in her stomach despite the fear.
"Anyway," he said, sauntering toward the closet, "I figured you wouldn't be comfortable putting on yesterday's clothes, so I had a few options brought up."
He pointed at a chair where several dresses — all expensive and way too nice for her — were piled up.
Freya glared at him.
"What could be more uncomfortable than sitting here with you?" she muttered.
"I can't have you getting involved with anyone else while you're still in my hotel room. Plus, I'm very possessive. Consider it a matter of principle." A smug smile spread across his face as he slipped on a black suit, fixing the collar without looking in the mirror.
Freya scowled so hard it hurt. ""Possessive? You don't even know me!"
And God willing, he never would.
"Fine," she snapped. "I'll leave. I don't want to breathe the same air as you any longer than necessary."
She grabbed the first dress her fingers touched and stomped into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
If she had stayed one second longer, she might have actually done something insane.
Like kiss him.
Or kill him.
She wasn't sure which would come first.
Inside, she leaned against the sink, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might crack her ribs.
"What the actual hell… Does he think I'm some kind of groupie?" she yanked off her camisole and let the cold water run through her in a bid to wash off the humiliation.
But as the chill ran over her skin, she frowned.
Something didn't add up.
She didn't feel like anything had happened.
No soreness. No blood. No tell-tale signs.
If something happened... shouldn't she feel something?
Her chest tightened.
Did he lie?
Soon, her thoughts began to clear, and memories from the previous night slowly came back.