Rain lashed against the penthouse windows, turning Manhattan's skyline into a watercolor smear. In the dim suite, only a Tiffany floor lamp cast honeyed light across the rumpled silk sheets. Clara Morgan trembled beneath Sebastian Hartwell's weight, tears carving hot paths down her temples.
Her wrists burned where his Burberry tie bit into her skin. "Mr. Hartwell, please—" she choked out, voice frayed. "I shouldn't have... just let me go." His thumb brushed her earlobe, a deceptively gentle gesture. "You lit the fuse, Clara. Now we burn."
With brutal efficiency, he shredded her blouse. Buttons pinged against marble floors like hailstones. When he surged into her, Clara bit her lip raw to stifle a scream. Pain, sharp and white-hot, tore through her. She turned her face into the pillow, praying for darkness. --- Morning sun needled Clara's eyes.
She winced as she sat up—every muscle screaming as if she'd survived a car wreck. In the ensuite bathroom, water drummed relentlessly. *Get out. Now.* She fumbled for her clothes, fingers shaking. Her shirt hung open, buttons massacred.
The mirror showed carnage: a constellation of bruises blooming from collarbone to breastbone. Purple. Angry. Humiliating. The shower cut off. Sebastian emerged with a towel slung low on his hips, droplets chasing the hard lines of his abs.
He snatched his phone from the nightstand, thumb swiping. *Buzz.* Clara's screen flashed: **$100,000 DEPOSITED - WELLS FARGO**.
"Buy Plan B or a clinic visit." His voice could frost glass. "Your choice." "Thank you, Mr. Hartwell." She clutched her coat like armor, covering the ruined silk. Professional. Always professional. But inside? *You idiot. You walked into the lion's den.*
He scrolled through emails, not glancing up. "Schedule?" Clara stood straighter, secretary-mode engaging like kevlar. "CFO briefing at 9:30. Lunch with British Consul Joshua at The Plaza.
Three p.m. London division teleconference. Your parents requested dinner at the penthouse, but Mr. Hayes and Mr. Rossi invited you to Carbone. You haven't RSVP'd." A muscle ticked in his jaw.
"Office by nine. I'll need—"
"Americano at 140°F. Geisha beans from Panama, ground fresh." She'd memorized his quirks like scripture.
"Dismissed." She fled.
Only at the elevator did she risk a look back. Sebastian stood framed in the doorway, eyes tracking her legs—and the faint rust stain on Egyptian cotton sheets. --- Clara blasted the shower until steam fogged her tiny Tribeca studio.
She scrubbed till her skin burned pink, sobbing into the torrent. *For what? To make Ethan Windsor flinch?* By 8 a.m., she was blow-drying her hair. No time for meltdowns.
At her vanity, she dabbed concealer over shadows haunting her eyes. This apartment was her rebellion.
After her parents' plane crash at eleven, their trust fund gathered dust. Instead, she'd clawed up Hartwell Enterprises' ladder, using two years' bonuses for a down payment.
Columbia University's top finance grad. Hartwell's youngest executive assistant. Then, one year ago, *personal secretary to the devil himself*. Manhattan whispered about Sebastian Hartwell: the billionaire Midas whose touch turned competitors to ash. Gorgeous. Untouchable.
Legend had it he'd booted a naked socialite into a Ritz-Carlton hallway for brushing his arm.
So why her?
*Definitely not my charm,*
Clara thought wryly, swiping mascara.
**FLASHBACK**
Rain slicked the garage's concrete floors that day. Sebastian stood by his Rolls-Royce, waiting for his driver.
Clara's heels echoed like gunshots as she approached. "Mr. Hartwell? Clara Morgan from HR." He'd glanced at her like she'd tracked sewage on his Prada loafers.
"I want to be your personal secretary." Silence. The kind that precedes hurricanes.
"Give me a shot," she pushed.
"Disappear." His knuckles whitened on his phone. "Or you're fired."
Anyone else would've folded. But Clara remembered Ethan's laugh as he groped Sarah Miller against their locker bank. *
"Look at Clara—built like a linebacker. Who'd screw that?"* She stepped closer.
"One-month trial. Flunk me? I vanish." The Rolls purred to life. He'd slid inside without a word.
Next morning, HR called: *"Report to Mr. Hartwell. Today."
**END FLASHBACK**
For thirty days, Clara became a machine. She'd recite his schedule backward by 6 a.m. Knew he took meetings at 68°F exactly. When he shattered a monitor during a Tokyo call, she'd replaced it before he hung up. She navigated his moods like a minesweeper—deflecting toxic investors, charming his skeptical inner circle.
And somehow, she'd survived. Until last night's gamble. *Revenge*, she'd whispered when Sebastian cornered her by the elevator last week. *Make Ethan see someone wanted me.*
She'd "accidentally" grazed Sebastian's hand delivering files. "Fixed" his tie, fingers lingering. Wiped espresso from his lip as he scowled: *"Clara, you playing with fire?"*
*"Would you burn me?"* she'd teased—a terrible impression of some femme fatale.
*"You think I won't?"* His palm had caged her against mahogany paneling.
*"I'm not scared."* Lie of the century. But she hadn't expected *this*. Sebastian Hartwell wasn't some high school jock.
He was a nuclear reactor—and she'd jammed the control rods. Her phone buzzed. Mrs. Windsor's number: **"Clara, sweetheart. Cook's making coq au vin tonight. Come home?"**
*Home*. The Windsor's Fifth Avenue townhouse where she'd lived since the funeral. Where Ethan smirked when she walked in. *Home was where they stored orphans.*
Clara tugged on a Saint Laurent pantsuit, armor against the world. At a CVS near Wall Street, she slapped a box of Plan B on the counter. The clerk scanned it, bored. "Rough night?" he yawned. Clara crumpled the receipt.
*Rough? Try catastrophic.
* Outside, rain kissed her face. She hailed a cab, throat tight. This wasn't revenge.
It was surrender.