One Night With The Cold CEO

"Happy anniversary," Faye Hayes whispered to the box in her hand.

Inside, a limited-edition watch gleamed under the streetlights. It had cost her three months of savings from her secret art commissions, but it was worth it. For Ryan.

She hummed a little tune as she approached his apartment building, the familiar rhythm a counterpoint to the excited thumping in her chest. She keyed in the code. Instead of the usual beep and click, the door swung open silently. It was unlocked.

A sliver of unease cut through her happiness. Ryan was meticulous about security. He never left the door unlocked.

She pushed it open.

The first thing she saw was the shoes. A pair of heels, carelessly discarded near the entrance. Red soles. Louboutins.

The air in her lungs turned to ice.

They were the exact pair she had given her best friend, Penelope Carlisle, for her birthday last month.

A sound drifted from the bedroom. A low, suppressed laugh, followed by a distinctly feminine giggle that she knew as well as her own.

The world tilted on its axis. The blood in her veins felt like it was freezing, turning to slush. Her stomach twisted into a tight, painful knot.

She moved without thinking, her feet carrying her forward like a ghost. The bedroom door was slightly ajar. Through the gap, she saw them. Two bodies, tangled in the sheets of the bed she and Ryan had shared.

His words, meant for another, were poison in her ears. "You're so much better than her, Penelope Carlisle."

Penelope's answering laugh was a shard of glass in Faye's heart.

Faye slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound that threatened to claw its way out of her throat. A wave of nausea washed over her. She stumbled back, away from the door, away from the scene that was burning itself into her brain.

The beautifully wrapped gift slipped from her numb fingers. It hit the hardwood floor with a sharp, sickening crack. The sound of something precious breaking.

She didn't wait. She turned and fled.

She jabbed the elevator button, a frantic, repetitive motion. The doors felt like they took an eternity to close, sealing her in the small, suffocating box. She was escaping a nightmare, but the nightmare was inside her now.

Out on the street, the New York City night air did nothing to cool the fire of betrayal burning through her. She walked without direction, her mind a maelstrom of broken images and whispered words. Her feet, on autopilot, eventually carried her into the dim, noisy sanctuary of a bar.

"The strongest thing you have," she told the bartender, her voice a raw croak.

He slid a glass of whiskey toward her. She downed it in one go, the burn in her throat a welcome distraction from the ache in her chest. One glass became two, then three. The sharp edges of her pain began to blur, softened by the amber liquid.

She pulled out her phone. Dozens of missed calls and texts. Ryan. Penelope. A bitter laugh escaped her lips. She powered the phone off and shoved it deep into her purse.

A man sat down in the stool next to her. He didn't speak, but his presence was a sudden shift in the atmosphere. The air grew colder, charged. He wore an expensive suit, and a scent of cold wood and something else—something clean, sharp, like winter air—cut through the bar's stale smell of beer and regret.

Faye glanced at him through a drunken haze. A strong jaw, a severe profile. He looked like he owned the world and was bored by it.

He ordered a drink, his voice a low rumble. She could feel his eyes on her, a cool, analytical gaze.

"What," she slurred, a self-loathing laugh bubbling up. "Wanna buy me a drink? I look like an easy target?"

The man turned his head fully toward her. His eyes were deep-set and dark, holding an unnerving intensity. "You look like you need one," he said, his voice low and magnetic.

Something in his tone, a complete lack of pity, made her want to cry. Instead, she reached out, grabbed his untouched glass, and drained it. The alcohol hit her system like a lightning strike.

The rest of the night fractured into disconnected moments.

A strong arm, steering her out of the loud, crowded bar.

The cold night air on her face.

The feeling of being lifted, held against a chest as hard and unyielding as granite.

She remembered crying. Sobbing into a crisp, expensive shirt, the words of betrayal pouring out of her in a messy, incoherent torrent.

The next thing she knew, sunlight was slicing through a gap in the heavy curtains of a hotel room, stabbing at her eyes. Her head throbbed with a vicious, pulsating rhythm. She was in a vast, unfamiliar suite, the kind that cost more per night than her monthly rent.

A surge of panic seized her. She was naked. Her skin was covered in marks that weren't hers, faint bruises in the shape of fingers on her hips, a dark bloom on her collarbone.

She sat bolt upright, clutching the silk sheets to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She turned her head.

And all the blood in her body turned to ice.

Sleeping beside her, his face calm and severe even in slumber, was the man from the bar.

A man she knew.

It was Julian Carlisle.Her best friend Penelope Carlisle's stepbrother. The cold, untouchable CEO who ran his family's empire with ruthless precision. The last man on earth she should ever be in a bed with.