Mistaking The Ruthless CEO For An Escort

The morning sun was a brutal, blinding weapon. It sliced through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains, stabbing directly into Ava's eyelids. She let out a dry, painful groan and tried to roll over. Her body screamed in protest. Every muscle felt bruised, stretched, and sore, as if she had been repeatedly thrown against a concrete wall. She forced her eyes open. Her vision swam for a second before focusing on the ceiling. It wasn't the water-stained plaster of her cheap apartment. It was a hand-painted, vaulted ceiling dripping with luxury. Ava stopped breathing. Her heart gave a violent, painful lurch in her chest. The memories of last night hit her like a freight train. The tequila. The dark room. The burning heat. The ruthless, bruising kisses. She slowly, rigidly turned her head to the side. A man was sleeping next to her. He was lying on his stomach, the white sheet pooled around his waist. His broad, muscular back was covered in a network of angry red scratch marks. Her scratch marks. Ava slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp. Bile rose in her throat. Her mind raced frantically. She remembered her friend mentioning a rumor about The Elysium hotel. The underground concierge service. Elite male escorts for the ultra-rich. She looked at the absurdly lavish room. She looked at the man's flawless, sculpted physique. The conclusion slammed into her brain with horrifying clarity. She had slept with a high-end gigolo. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. She had to get out of here. Now. Moving with agonizing slowness, she gripped the edge of the sheet. She lifted it, trying to slide off the mattress without making a sound. Her bare toes just barely brushed the thick carpet. "Where exactly do you think you're going?" The voice came from right behind her. It was deep, raspy, and completely devoid of sleep. Ava jumped so hard she nearly fell off the bed. She whipped around, yanking the sheet up to her chin, her knuckles turning white. Garrison Terry was awake. He sat up slowly, the sheet falling away to reveal his heavily muscled chest. His dark eyes were razor-sharp, pinning her to the spot with terrifying intensity. He looked at her, his mind already calculating. He was waiting for the blackmail demand. He was waiting for her to name her price for keeping quiet about sleeping with the CEO of Terry Group. Ava's chest heaved. The shame was eating her alive, but she refused to cower. She needed to handle this like a transaction. "Last night... was an accident," Ava blurted out, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound firm. "But I'm not someone who takes advantage. I pay my debts." Garrison's brow furrowed. He stared at her, the gears in his head freezing for a fraction of a second. Ava swallowed hard, avoiding his piercing gaze. "How much are you for one night?" The silence in the room became absolute. It was so quiet Ava could hear the blood rushing in her own ears. Garrison stared at her. He genuinely thought he had misheard her. "Excuse me?" he said, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with a dark, dangerous undertone. Ava thought he was trying to negotiate. She bit her lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood. She reached over the edge of the bed, digging into her ruined purse on the floor until she found her phone. She tapped the screen and held it up. "I'm asking for your service fee," Ava said, her voice rising in panic. "I can just Venmo you right now. Let's just settle this." Garrison looked at the bright screen of her phone. The Venmo transfer page was open. The realization hit him. She thought he was a whore. The CEO of the Terry Group, a man who moved billions of dollars before breakfast, was being offered a Venmo payment for sexual services. A dark, humorless laugh ripped from his throat. The sound made the hairs on Ava's arms stand up. Garrison threw the covers off completely. He didn't care that he was naked. He stepped off the bed, his tall frame radiating pure, unfiltered menace. He took a slow step toward her. Then another. Ava's breath hitched. The sheer physical presence of the man was suffocating. She scrambled backward on the mattress, her heart hammering against her ribs until her spine hit the solid wood of the headboard. She was trapped. Garrison planted his hands on the mattress on either side of her hips, caging her in. He leaned down, his face inches from hers. She could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek. "Are you absolutely sure," Garrison whispered, his voice dripping with lethal ice, "that your bank account can handle my price, sweetheart?"