Escaping The Erotic Billionaire

The fluorescent lights in the Assistant District Attorney's office buzzed with a low, sterile hum. It was past midnight, a time when the rest of Manhattan was either drowning in expensive alcohol or sleeping in high-rise apartments.

Dawn Summers sat behind a desk buried under mountains of legal files. As an Assistant District Attorney, her life was dictated by facts, evidence, and cold, hard logic. She needed this job. She needed the grueling hours and the endless stream of petty theft cases to keep her brain occupied. If she stopped working, if she allowed herself even a second of idle time, the memories she had spent five years burying would claw their way back to the surface.

Her fingers, pale and slender, gripped a yellow highlighter. The plastic casing felt hard against her skin.

She dragged the neon tip across a crucial line of witness testimony. The highlighter made a sharp, scratching sound against the crisp white paper. It was a grounding noise. It was the sound of order in a world she constantly fought to keep under control.

Suddenly, the screen of her phone, lying face-up next to a stack of manila folders, lit up.

A violent vibration shattered the quiet of the office. The device rattled against the wooden desk like a warning siren.

Dawn paused. She slowly lowered the highlighter. Her eyes darted to the glowing screen. The caller ID flashed a name she knew all too well: Allyson Patton.

Allyson was her best friend, a woman who belonged to a world of trust funds and country clubs-a world Dawn had only ever observed from the outside, a world she had forcefully excised from her life.

Dawn swiped her thumb across the glass screen to answer the call. She pressed the cold metal of the phone against her ear.

"Dawn!"

Allyson's voice exploded through the speaker, a high-pitched shriek of pure, unadulterated excitement.

Dawn flinched. She instinctively pulled the phone an inch away from her ear to protect her eardrums. She raised her free hand, pressing two fingers against her temple, rubbing the spot where a dull ache was beginning to form.

"Allyson, it's past midnight. I'm reviewing a grand larceny case," Dawn said, her voice a practiced, steady monotone. It was the voice she used in the courtroom to project absolute authority and calm.

"Forget your boring cases!" Allyson yelled over the line. "Tomorrow night. Manhattan. The Grand Plaza Club. There is a massive alumni mixer, and you are coming with me."

Dawn let out a soft, exhausted sigh. She leaned back in her cheap office chair, the springs creaking under her weight. The Grand Plaza Club was an exclusive venue where the city's elite gathered to flaunt their generational wealth. It was the last place a public servant with a mountain of student debt belonged.

She opened her mouth, ready to formulate a polite but firm excuse about needing to prepare for a preliminary hearing.

"Don't even think about saying no," Allyson interrupted, her tone suddenly shifting from excited to conspiratorial. "Because he is back."

Dawn's breath caught in her throat.

"Arlo Hammond flew back into the country this morning," Allyson announced.

The name hit Dawn like a physical blow to the chest.

Her heart, which had been beating at a steady, rhythmic pace, violently skipped a beat. For two full seconds, her lungs completely forgot how to process oxygen. The air in the office suddenly felt too thin, too cold.

Arlo Hammond.