Betrayed By Him: Claimed By The Boss

The black Lincoln glided smoothly to a stop in front of the towering glass facade of the Corbett Grand Hotel.

The doorman, dressed in a crisp uniform, pulled the car door open.

Katia swung her legs out. Her heels clicked against the wet pavement as she stepped onto the red carpet.

A blast of cold night air hit her face, mixing with the heavy alcohol in her blood.

Her stomach lurched violently. She swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down her throat.

She straightened her blazer and walked through the revolving doors into the massive, gold-leafed lobby.

The crystal chandeliers cast a blinding light that made her wince and squint her eyes.

The night manager, a man in a tailored suit, spotted her immediately. He saw a high-profile guest entering his lobby and rushed forward, a practiced, accommodating smile on his face.

"Welcome to the Corbett Grand. How may I assist you tonight, ma'am?"

Katia held up a hand, cutting him off. Her eyes were cold. "Don't."

She bypassed the main elevators and walked straight to the end of the hall, swiping her card at the VIP express elevator.

The brass doors parted. She stepped inside.

The doors closed, and the elevator shot upward, the numbers on the digital display blurring as it climbed to the top floor.

On the sixtieth floor, in the sprawling 601 suite, Jackson Kerr ripped his silk tie from his neck.

He had just spent fourteen hours locked in a boardroom, tearing a rival company apart in a hostile takeover.

His muscles were tight, his jaw aching from clenching it all day.

He walked over to the crystal decanter by the floor-to-ceiling window and poured himself three fingers of neat whiskey.

His phone buzzed on the marble counter.

A text from his assistant, Leo: Sent some company to your room. Relax, boss.

Jackson stared at the screen. A muscle feathered in his jaw.

He grabbed the phone and tossed it onto the plush velvet sofa.

He wanted to text back and tell Leo to cancel it, but the exhaustion in his bones made lifting his hands feel like a chore.

He took a sip of the whiskey, letting it burn his throat.

Down the hall, the elevator chimed.

The doors opened. Katia stumbled out.

Her heel caught on the edge of the thick, sound-absorbing carpet, and she pitched forward slightly before catching her balance.

The hallway was dimly lit, the sconces casting long, ambiguous shadows against the walls.

She pulled out the black keycard, trying to focus on the door number Audrey had told her. The hallway lights blurred, making the gold numbers on the heavy wooden doors for 601 and 602 swim together in her alcohol-soaked brain.

She dragged her feet to the heavy oak door on her left. 601. She assumed it was hers.

She pressed the card against the black sensor pad.

A red light flashed. A low beep signaled an error.

Katia groaned. Her patience was entirely gone.

She slapped her palm flat against the heavy wood, ready to turn around and scream at the front desk.

But as her hand hit the wood, the door gave way.

It creaked inward, revealing a two-inch gap.

Room service had dropped off a bucket of ice ten minutes ago and failed to pull the heavy door until it clicked shut.

Katia didn't question it. Her brain was too foggy.

She pushed the door wide open and stepped inside.

She turned around and shoved the door closed with her shoulder. The heavy lock clicked into place with a solid, metallic thud.

The suite was dark. The main lights were off.

The only illumination came from the neon glow of the Manhattan skyline bleeding through the massive windows.

Katia kicked off her heels. They hit the marble floor of the foyer with a clatter.

She didn't care. She walked barefoot onto the thick rug, heading toward the center of the living room.

Jackson heard the noise.

He turned away from the window, the whiskey glass still in his hand. He stepped out of the shadows.

Katia stopped dead in her tracks.

In the dim, blue-tinted light of the city, their eyes locked.