Healed By The Ruthless Billionaire's Touch

The underground bar at the Grand Elysium was suffocatingly dark. Low, heavy jazz music vibrated through the floorboards. Abigail sat on a leather stool at the far end of the mahogany bar. Four empty shot glasses sat in a neat row in front of her. The whiskey burned through her bloodstream. It cast a thick, heavy fog over her brain, dulling the sharp, stabbing pain in her cheek. Above the bar, a muted television played the breaking news. The chyron read: VANCE MEDIA STOCK PLUMMETS AFTER INCEST SCANDAL. The bartender and the patrons around her were whispering excitedly, pointing at the screen. Abigail stared at the television. A bitter, drunken laugh scraped its way out of her throat. She pushed herself off the stool. The room tilted violently. The floor felt like it was made of liquid. She swayed, her hand shooting out to grip the edge of the bar. She pulled a crumpled hundred-dollar bill from her clutch and slapped it onto the wet wood. She waved off the bartender's attempt to hand her change. She stumbled toward the elevator bank. Her vision blurred, splitting the hallway into double images. She had a standard suite on the third floor. She rented it year-round for late nights. She just needed to get to a bed. As she reached the elevators, she leaned heavily against the wall, fumbling blindly inside her clutch for her room card. Her fingers brushed against a thick plastic rectangle. She pulled it out, not realizing in her drunken haze that it was an old, deactivated VIP club card from a different hotel entirely. She stumbled into the open elevator and slapped the card against the sensor panel. She clumsily jabbed her finger at what she thought was the button for the third floor. However, her hand slipped, hitting the unlabelled button at the very top of the panel. The elevator doors slid shut. The machine didn't reject the invalid card; instead, a rare system glitch, combined with a maintenance mode left active by a careless technician earlier that evening, accepted the input. The button she pressed-the one marked 'PH'-lit up with a bright red glow. The elevator shot upward at a terrifying speed. It didn't stop at the third floor. It bypassed every level until it reached the penthouse. The doors slid open with a soft chime. Abigail stumbled out. The hallway was different. The carpet was thick, plush wool. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling. Her drunken brain didn't register the change. She walked up to the massive, double-carved doors at the end of the hall. Instead of fumbling with a lock, she leaned her weight against the heavy wood. To her surprise, it gave way. The highest security lock in the building hadn't engaged properly; the door was left slightly ajar by whoever had rushed inside earlier in a frantic state. Abigail pushed the heavy door open. The air inside was freezing. It smelled like sharp cedar and something dark, heavy, and dangerous. The lights were off. The only illumination came from the sprawling Los Angeles skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Abigail kicked off her high heels. She walked barefoot across the rug, blindly heading toward where she assumed the bedroom was. Her skin felt too hot. She reached up and unzipped the back of her dress a few inches, letting the cool air hit her spine. A sound stopped her dead in her tracks. It was a harsh, ragged breath. A wet panting coming from the deep shadows of the living room. Abigail blinked hard. She squinted into the darkness. On the massive leather sofa, a large, broad-shouldered silhouette was curled inward. The man let out a low, guttural groan of pure agony. Abigail's drunken mind misfired. She thought he was having a heart attack. She took a shaky step toward the sofa.