His Obsession: Bound to the Ruthless Billionaire

Chapter 2

Adrianna's POV

My eyes fluttered open to a blur of gold and cream decorations around the room I was in.

For a moment, I thought I was still dreaming. The bed beneath me was far too soft, the silk sheets far too smooth against my skin. The faint smell of expensive cologne lingered in the air, masculine, and nothing like the scent Grant wore.

I shifted under the covers, wincing when a dull ache radiated through my hips and thighs. My skin felt sensitive, my mouth dry. Fragments of last night flickered in my mind, my sister's tight smile, the liquor, the way my body had burned from the inside out, and the man in the bed whose touch had been... overwhelming.

Grant. It had to be Grant.

I licked my lips, trying to find my voice. "Grant?"

For a moment, silence answered me. Then...

"Grant?" I tried again, this time with a tentative laugh.

A deep, unfamiliar voice cut through the air. "Try again."

I froze.

That voice... it was rich, smooth, and utterly cold, carrying a weight that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I pushed myself up on my elbows, clutching the sheets to my chest as if they could shield me from the sudden tightness in my chest.

The bathroom door opened, and my breath caught.

It wasn't Grant.

The man who stepped out was tall, impossibly tall, with broad shoulders that filled the doorway. A towel was slung low around his hips, droplets of water sliding down sculpted abs and disappearing beneath the piece of cloth. His skin was warm-toned, his hair damp and slightly tousled, as if he had just stepped out of the shower.

But it was his face that rooted me to the spot. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw dusted with stubble, and eyes... God, those eyes. Dark, piercing, and colder than winter rain.

Recognition struck me like a slap.

Xavier Palmer.

I've seen him before, on magazine covers, in glossy business spreads, in whispered gossip over champagne. Billionaire hotel magnate. Untouchable. Dangerous, if the rumors were to be believed.

"What..." My voice wavered. "What are you doing here?"

His gaze swept over me, slow and deliberate, starting from my messy hair down to where the silk clung to my bare skin. There was no softness in his expression... only calculation, as though I were a puzzle he had no patience for.

"I think," he said, his tone clipped, "the question is what you're doing here."

My stomach flipped. "I... I was with Grant last night. We... I thought..."

"You thought wrong."

The words landed like ice water, snapping me out of the haze. My hands gripped the sheet tighter. "Wait... what do you mean? Where's Grant?"

Xavier's jaw tightened, and he took a step into the room, closing the distance between us. Even with the towel wrapped around him, he carried himself with the kind of confidence that made the air feel thinner.

"I have never met your Grant," he said flatly. "And before you ask, no, I don't make a habit of waking up with strange women in my bed."

Heat rushed to my cheeks, part humiliation, part defensiveness. "Strange women? I didn't plan this! My sister... she gave me something to drink... and she told me..."

His brow arched, the only sign he was even listening. "Your sister brought you here?"

"Yes... I mean, no... I don't know!" My thoughts were a jumble, my pulse pounding in my ears. "All I remember is the club, then the drink, then..."

I trailed off, unable to finish. Images from that night slipped into my mind uninvited, his hands, his mouth, the heat of his body pressed against mine. Only now, in the clear light of morning, those moments felt less like desire and more like a wildfire I stumbled into blindfolded.

Xavier's gaze sharpened. "You were drugged?"

"I..." I swallowed. "I think so. I felt... different. Not myself. But I swear, I thought you were Grant."

That earned me a dry, humorless chuckle. "You confuse me with your boyfriend? That's rich."

My spine stiffened. "It was dark. And I wasn't exactly... in my right mind."

His eyes narrowed slightly, and for a heartbeat, I thought I saw something flicker in them, doubt, maybe, or something darker. But it was gone as quickly as it came.

"You expect me to believe this was an accident?" he asked, voice dropping lower, each word deliberate.

"I'm telling you the truth," I insisted, my voice breaking on the last word. "Why would I lie?"

He stopped at the edge of the bed, towering over me. I could see every detail of his face now, the hard set of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Up close, he was even more intimidating.

"Because," he said slowly, his gaze locking onto mine, "people lie to me all the time. They use me. They set me up. And somehow, they always think I won't notice."

The words settled heavily between us.

My pulse spiked. "I'm not..."

"You're telling me," he interrupted, "that you just happened to end up in my bed, naked, after being conveniently drugged by your sister, and it's all just a big misunderstanding?"

I swallowed hard. "Yes."

His lips curved, not into a smile, but into something far more dangerous.

"I don't believe in coincidences, Adrianna."

Hearing my name from his mouth made my skin prickle. "How do you even know my name?"

He leaned in slightly, his voice a low rumble. "Because if someone goes to this much trouble to drop a stranger into my bed... I make it my business to find out who she is."

The room suddenly felt too small. My instincts screamed at me to get up, to put distance between us, but my body refused to move.

"What do you want from me?" I whispered.

His eyes stayed locked on mine, cold and unblinking.

"I want to know," he said, each word like a blade, "exactly how much of last night was your idea... and how much of it was part of the setup."

Heat rushed to my face. I clutched the fabric tighter, curling my legs beneath me, but his expression didn't shift, still hard, still unreadable. Somehow, the lack of warmth in his eyes made me feel more exposed than my bare skin ever could.

Without letting me talk, "Get dressed," he said at last, the words clipped, like commands he expected to be followed without question.

I blinked at him. "What?"

"You heard me." He took a step back toward the wardrobe, opened it with a controlled flick of his wrist, and pulled out a crisp white shirt. He tossed it on the bed, the faint scent of his cologne clinging to it. "Put that on and leave."

My pulse spiked. "Wait... you don't understand. I don't even know how I got here..."

"I don't care." His voice was as cold as the floor under my bare feet. "I'm not interested in your excuses, your story, or whatever reason you think justifies this. You have two minutes."

Anger flickered inside me, battling my panic attack. "You think I planned this?"

He gave a slow, almost lazy shrug. "If you didn't, then whoever sent you did. Either way, you're in my bed, which means you're a problem."

My fingers trembled as I reached for the shirt, yanking it over my head. It was far too big, hanging loose around my thighs, but it was better than sitting there naked under his scrutiny. My clothes from last night were folded neatly on a chair, another detail that made my stomach twist.

I dressed quickly, keeping my eyes on the floor.

When I finally straightened, he was still watching me, arms crossed over his bare chest, towel still low on his hips.

"I didn't ask for this," I said quietly.

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought I saw something flicker there, doubt, maybe, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "That's your problem," he said, his tone final.

I slipped past him. My hand had just closed around the handle when his voice stopped me cold. "Tell your friends they failed." The words were low, dangerous, each one filled with warning.

"And if I see you again..." His gaze raked all over my body again. "You won't walk away."

A chill ran down my spine, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.