Silas Sterling's skull throbbed like a hangover hammered into bone.
He pried his eyes open. A crystal chandelier stabbed light downward while air conditioning whispered across skin that felt… naked.
Naked?
He vaulted upright. Dizziness be damned—his gaze crashed into twin peaks swelling beneath his collarbone. The unflappable heir to the Sterling empire froze. Pupils dilated. He stumbled off the bed, legs buckling like overcooked noodles. Not drunk. Drugged.
The hotel room blurred into focus: generic luxury décor. Silas staggered to the floor-length mirror—and stared at a stranger.
A woman's nude form glowed in the glass. Raven hair spilled over ivory shoulders, cascading past a waist slender as a violin's neck. Hips flared above thunderbolt thighs; every curve screamed voluptuous rebellion. Only the face mirrored his own shock—high cheekbones taut with disbelief.
Silas dug fingernails into that flawless cheek.
Pain. Real. Not a dream.
Chaos erupted beyond the door.
"This the room?"
"Confirmed! Director Tseng's suite!"
"Is Skylar Vance really in there?"
"My source saw her crawl in! Get the keycard—now!"
Silas moved. He yanked a robe from the closet, snatched clothes strewn on a sofa (a crimson dress, stilettos, lace… underthings?), and dove onto the balcony.
Neon glittered below. Gardens coiled in familiar patterns.
Flower Cloud Hot Springs Resort. Sterling property.
VIP villas stood shoulder-to-shoulder, balconies divided by a two-meter chasm. Beep-beep. The door burst open. Five paparazzi swarmed inside. Silas gripped the robe, vaulted the railing—
Thud.
He crashed onto the adjacent balcony, knees and elbows scraping raw. Blood beaded. Pain confirmed.
"Gone? How?!" a man snarled nearby.
Silas lay still as stone until footsteps retreated.
Alone, he inventoried his loot:
Offline phoneScarlet slip dressTorture devices masquerading as heelsA lace bra defying gravity and engineering
(How did it stay put?)
Fingers fumbled over satin straps. A brush against his—her—breast sent electric revulsion down his spine.
Whispers hissed from the first villa:
"...watched them dump her on the bed! I undressed her myself!" a woman rasped.
"The foreign drugs never fail! Damn it—no photos, and we pissed off Tseng!"
"The film deal—"
"Call Skylar tomorrow. Play clueless."
Click. Silence.
Silas committed that female voice to memory.
Dress zipped. Shoes? Hell no. He kicked off the heels, scrubbed blood from the balcony tiles, and dumped the robe in a laundry chute.
The hallway mirror stopped him cold.
Even by European standards, the reflection stole breath. Jet-black waves framed cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass. A rosebud mouth, currently pressed into a military line. He didn't know "Skylar Vance"—but this face belonged on billboards.
A drawer yielded a black face mask. Silas slipped it on, crept into the staff corridor (code: 0719—his birthday), and powered up the phone in a janitor's closet.
The lock screen flashed:
A younger Skylar, swaddled in pink wool, beaming between her parents and a toddler sister before Tiananmen Gate. Sunshine. No shadows.
Silas dialed his own number.
Brrrrp. Brrr—
*"...Huh? JESUS FUCK!" *
Click.
Silas pressed the phone to Skylar's forehead. Well. This complicates things.