Dabanetcher

Pain was the first thing Hali Andrews registered. It was a sharp, rhythmic thudding behind her temples, the kind of hangover headache that promised a day of misery. She kept her eyes closed, unwilling to let the morning light assault her retinas just yet. She shifted, expecting the lumpy comfort of her old mattress in Brooklyn, but the sheets beneath her fingers felt wrong. They were too smooth. Too cool. Silk.

She frowned, her fingers curling into the fabric. The scent in the air was different, too. Her apartment usually smelled of stale coffee and the vanilla candle she burned to mask the scent of the city. This air smelled expensive. It was a crisp blend of cedar, cold sandalwood, and something uniquely masculine.

Hali reached out blindly toward where her nightstand should be, fumbling for her phone to check the time. Her hand did not find wood or plastic. Instead, her palm landed on the rumpled mattress. The high-thread-count sheets were indented, holding the lingering, intense body heat of someone who had just vacated the spot.

Hali froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage.

She snapped her eyes open.

The room was vast, bathed in the soft gray light of a Manhattan morning. But Hali did not look at the floor-to-ceiling windows or the modern art on the walls. Her gaze was locked on the frosted glass door of the en-suite bathroom, where the heavy drumming of a running shower echoed through the quiet suite.

The memories of the previous night crashed into her mind like a tidal wave. The charity gala. The endless trays of champagne she had consumed to numb the boredom. The elevator ride where the air had suddenly become too thin. The heat of his hand on her waist. The way the door to the penthouse suite had clicked shut, sealing her fate.

Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. She stopped breathing. This was a catastrophe. This was the end of her career. If Irving found out...

Irving. She squeezed her eyes shut. She had called him three times last night. He had not answered. That was why she drank the champagne. That was why she was here.

She snatched her hand back as if burned, clutching it to her chest. She had to leave. Now. Before he finished his shower.

Hali moved with painstaking slowness, inching toward the edge of the bed. Her limbs felt heavy, uncooperative. She managed to sit up, swinging her legs over the side, her feet sinking into a plush carpet that probably cost more than her student loans.

She looked around frantically for her clothes. Her dress, a vintage piece she had altered herself to look like a designer gown, was lying in a heap near the door. It was ruined. The zipper was torn, the fabric ripped at the seam. A visceral memory of Ezra's hands tearing it off her flashed through her mind, making her face burn.

She could not wear that. She was naked, stranded in the lion's den, with no armor.

Suddenly, the water in the bathroom cut off. The silence that followed was worse than the noise.

Hali grabbed the silk sheet and pulled it up to her chin, scrambling backward until her back hit the headboard. She felt like a cornered animal.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Ezra walked out. He was fully awake, alert. There was no morning grogginess in his eyes, only a terrifying, predatory clarity. He wore a black towel low on his hips, water droplets clinging to his broad shoulders and tracking down the defined ridges of his abdomen. He moved with a stiff, controlled grace. The towel hung low enough to obscure his upper legs completely, revealing nothing but muscle. His presence filled the room, sucking the oxygen out of the air.

He looked at her. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes sweeping over her, clutching the sheet. He did not look embarrassed. He did not look regretful. He looked like he was in a boardroom meeting.

"Good morning, Hali."

Hali opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She cleared her throat, her voice trembling when she finally spoke. "Mr. Gardner. I... this was... I need to leave."

Ezra didn't respond immediately. He walked past the bed, his movement fluid yet careful, toward the massive walk-in closet. He disappeared for a moment and returned holding a garment bag and a box.

He placed them on the foot of the bed.

"Wear these," he said.

Hali stared at the logo on the box. Chanel. She looked back at him, confusion warring with her panic.

Ezra leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms over his bare chest. "Given the events of last night, and my position, we need to discuss the path forward."

Hali blinked. "What?"

"Marriage," Ezra said. The word hung in the air, heavy and absurd.

Hali let out a choked laugh. It was a hysterical sound. "Excuse me?"

Ezra's face remained impassive. "A scandal involving the CEO and a junior assistant would be detrimental to the stock price, especially with a vital, confidential brand acquisition currently in the sensitive negotiation phase. A sudden marriage, however, can be spun as a whirlwind romance. It stabilizes the board. It solves the PR crisis before it begins."

Hali stared at him. He was discussing their night together-a night where he had touched her in ways that made her burn just thinking about it-as if it were a line item on a quarterly report.

"That is insane," Hali whispered. "I am not marrying you for a stock price."

Ezra tilted his head slightly. "It is a contract. A business arrangement. You will be compensated."