"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 had just a camisole and boyshorts on… 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 body outlined by a silk robe that looked more expensive than her entire college degree.
His face was rugged, sharp-jawed and dark-eyed. It was the kind 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 steps, he closed the distance between them, towering over her so close that 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.
"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 instantly, and she yanked the blanket tighter around herself.
"No. I don't remember anything," she snapped, more embarrassed than annoyed.
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, and his smile widened.
God, she hated him already.
"Did you drug me?" she blurted, the words out before she could stop them.
Arnold let out 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. Ever.
The idea that she'd lost her virginity to a stranger she couldn't even remember was...
Unthinkable.
But the evidence was right there: her half-naked body, his too-confident smirk, this absurdly lavish room.
"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 buried under what looked like elegant designer dresses, all of them screaming money.
Freya glared at him.
"What could be more uncomfortable than sitting here with you?" she mumbled.
"I can't have you walking out from my hotel room looking like a walk of shame. 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've 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, her brows pulled together.
Something didn't add up.
She didn't feel like anything had happened.
No soreness. No blood. No tell-tale signs.
Her chest tightened.
Did he lie?
Soon, her thoughts began to clear, and memories from the previous night slowly came back.