Pampered By The Ruthless Apex CEO

Chloe Collins's head felt as if it had been struck by a sledgehammer—her thoughts were scrambled, her mind not yet fully awake. She forced her eyelids open, and the luxury hotel suite swam in and out of focus before her eyes. A thick, syrupy heat pulsed through her veins, making her skin feel so tight it could barely contain her body. She was wearing a silk camisole dress she didn't recognize, and the air smelled stale, with a metallic tang.

Panic, cold and sharp, began to cut through the chemical fog. She didn't recognize this room. She didn't know how she'd gotten here.

Then she heard voices through the heavy oak door. One voice was oily with false sincerity, nauseatingly familiar—a voice she knew better than her own. Her stepfather, Rick Tucker.

"She's a hot little thing, Mr. Carlisle, but she'll know her place. One night with you, and she'll be putty in your hands. Think of it as a gift... a down payment on our continued partnership."

Then came a young man's laugh, arrogant and dismissive. "A gift? Rick, let's be honest. You're selling your stepdaughter to cover your gambling debts."

Chloe's stomach tightened into a cold knot. The heat in her blood vanished, replaced by a chilling certainty. He'd done it. The bastard had actually done it.

The doorknob turned. She scrambled backward against the headboard, her heart slamming against her ribs like a trapped bird. The man who walked in was young, handsome in a predatory way, his smirk making her skin crawl. Ethan Carlisle.

"Well, hello there, Sleeping Beauty," he murmured, his eyes roaming over her. "Your daddy said you'd be eager to meet me." He began unbuttoning his cufflinks with an air of casual entitlement.

Chloe forced herself to produce a trembling smile, her mind racing faster than it ever had before. She let her eyes stay half-lidded, feigning drugged compliance. "I'm... I'm a little dizzy."

"Don't worry," he said, moving closer, his cologne thick and suffocating. "I'll take good care of you."

He leaned over her, reaching to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. In that instant, Chloe's hand shot out—not to embrace him, but to grab the heavy crystal lamp on the nightstand. She swung it with every ounce of strength she had.

The sound of glass and metal striking bone was sickeningly loud.

Ethan staggered back with a cry of pain and shock, his hand flying to the side of his head. Blood seeped between his fingers.

Chloe didn't look back. She launched herself off the bed and ran through the doorway.

She burst into the hallway—and froze. A mountain of a man in a black suit stood directly in her path, blocking the elevators. Marco Sullivan, Ethan's bodyguard. His face was expressionless as he stepped forward to cut off her escape.

Trapped. The word screamed in her mind.

Ethan stumbled out of the room, clutching his bleeding head, his face twisted with rage. "Grab her, Marco! Don't let the bitch get away!"

Chloe backed up, her bare feet cold on the marble floor. The only way out was at the end of the hall—a large window overlooking the city.

She didn't hesitate. She ran for the window, her hands fumbling with the latch. It swung open, and a gust of wind and rain rushed in.

New York glittered far below, a dizzying, rain-slicked abyss.

"Nowhere to run now, you little whore," Ethan snarled, advancing on her as Marco flanked him.

Chloe looked down. Three stories below, a canvas awning jutted out from the hotel's side entrance, a small, dark rectangle in the storm. It was a crazy, suicidal chance. And her only one.

She threw one last defiant look at her pursuers, then climbed onto the windowsill without hesitation and jumped.

The wind tore at her, and the fall was a terrible, weightless instant. She hit the awning with a violent, jarring impact that knocked the air from her lungs. The canvas ripped, but it slowed her descent just enough. She rolled off the edge and landed hard in the filth of a back alley. A sharp, burning pain shot through her ankle.

She didn't stop. She scrambled to her feet, limping, then running—out of the alley and into the rain pouring down on the street. The rain plastered the thin silk to her skin, and every step sent agony through her injured ankle.

She glanced back, wary. Marco's massive silhouette appeared at the mouth of the alley. He'd seen her.

Headlights cut through the rain. A black Maybach, sleek and powerful, glided down the street with the silent authority of a shark. The car of the city's king. Her only hope.

With the last of her strength, Chloe threw herself into the middle of the street, directly in front of the car, her arms spread wide.

The massive vehicle stopped inches from her body, its engine humming a low, menacing growl. The tinted rear window descended with an electric hum.

Through the rain, she saw the silhouette of a man. Sharp, severe, and utterly emotionless. His eyes were cold, like shards of ice, and seemed to look right through her.

She didn't care. Marco was getting closer. Her voice came out as a hoarse, broken sob.

"Help me!"

The man in the car didn't look at her. His gaze went past her, down the street to where Ethan had emerged from the alley, his face a mask of rage. A flicker of emotion—annoyance, disgust—crossed the man's face. Then his cold eyes returned to her.