Valentina Dubois stood naked before floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan's skyline glittering like spilled diamonds behind her. The social media hashtag #DuboisEffect trended whenever she wore couture, yet here she offered perfection to a man studying his Rolex like a bomb timer.
"Sebastian." She trailed lacquered nails down his Tom Ford shirt. "Shall I—"
He caught her wrist mid-descent. "Turn around."
Valentina preened. Of course. Hartwell preferred admiring masterpieces from behind. She arched her ballet-trained spine——and crashed onto Persian silk rug as Sebastian shoved her off. "Out."
Valentina gaped. Kingsley Shaw had personally begged her: "He's never asked for company. You're making history." Now cold marble stung her knees. "You requested me!"
Sebastian rose, shadow swallowing her. "Request rescinded." He hauled her toward the foyer, Valentina's shrieks bouncing off Baccarat chandeliers.
"Animal! I'll ruin you on—"
"Choose." Sebastian wrenched the suite door open. "Dressed or dragged? Paparazzi camp in the lobby."
Valentina scrambled into her La Perla, tears smearing $500/hour makeup. As the door slammed, Sebastian braced against it. Failure. The socialite's perfume—Cloying vanilla and ambition—made him nauseous. Only one scent didn't repel him: Orange blossoms and rain.
He dialed Clara.
Clara's cab screeched under The Imperial's awning. Pelvic pain pulsed with each heartbeat—Dr. Vargas' warning ("Aggravation risks permanent damage") warring with Sebastian's command.
$200k just transferred, her banking app glowed. Blood money.
The Sovereign Suite smelled of shattered expectations and Valentina's abandoned Diptyque candle. Sebastian loomed in charcoal lounge pants, damp hair curling at his collar. "Three minutes late."
"Traffic on Fifth—"
"Excuses bore me." He tapped his phone. Her purse buzzed again—another $200k. "Enough motivation?"
Clara blanched. "I'm not—"
He gripped her chin. "Then why climb into my bed last month? Why whisper 'Burn me' against my mouth?" His thumb traced her lower lip—the same thumb that had transferred fortunes. "Play virgin martyr now?"
She flinched. "Please... I'm still healing."
Sebastian stilled. The plea—raw as an open nerve—unlocked memories: Clara's whimper when he'd breached her, the tear soaking his pillow. His doing.
He released her abruptly. "Shower."
Steam clouded the marble bath. Clara scrubbed Windsor betrayal from her skin. Eleanor's crocodile tears, Ethan's grasping hands. Only Sebastian's violence felt honest—no masks, just consumption.
She emerged swathed in Frette terry, freezing when she saw him seated bedside. Sebastian's gaze traced water droplets down her neck. "Robes off."
Endgame. Clara's fingers trembled on the knot. The terry slithered down——and Sebastian pulled her onto satin sheets. "Legs apart."
Clara squeezed her eyes shut. Just endure. Like Wellington locker shoves, like Ethan's—
Cold gel shocked her inner thigh. Her eyes flew open.
Sebastian bent between her knees, applying ointment with clinical precision. "Vaseline base," he murmured. "Absorbs faster than petroleum derivatives."
He's... doctoring me? Clara lurched up. "I can—"
"See your perineum? Remarkable talent." His smirk faded. "Lie down."
She obeyed, mortification burning hotter than inflammation.
Sebastian's fingers—the same ones that dismantled corporations—now traced fragile skin. Each stroke was paradox: Invasion fused with repair.
When he capped the tube, Clara scrambled for her robe. Sebastian pocketed the medicine. "This stays with me."
Prescription as leash, Clara realized. Healing required returning to her tormentor.
"Sleep here." Sebastian nodded at the $50k Savoir bed.
Clara blinked. "Just... sleep?"
"If I wanted rape, you'd already be screaming." His eyes darkened. "Choose: Beside me or over my knee?"
Clara became a whirlwind of deflection. She bagged his discarded Brioni suit ("Imperial's eco-clean service returns by 7am"), ordered breakfast:
"Single-origin Guatemalan Antigua—96°F precisely. Burrata with white truffle honey. Sourdough from Balthazar's midnight batch." She hesitated. "And... Plan B stocked in minibar?"
Sebastian observed her from the bed. Clara moved like wartime logistics: Phones muted, curtains drawn, water carafes aligned at 45-degree angles. Every gesture screamed Don't touch me, but let me serve you.
When she finally slid under duvets, she hugged the mattress edge—a comma against his king-size sentence.
Silence stretched. Clara counted Sebastian's breaths, waiting for claws.
A hand fisted her robe collar. She gasped as he dragged her backward—his chest pressed against her spine, arm banding her waist. "Lights."
Darkness fell. His heat seared through terrycloth. Human contact without violation, Clara realized. Her muscles unclenched stitch by stitch.
Sebastian buried his face in her hair—orange blossoms and rain. Valentina's perfume had reeked of desperation. This... this was absinthe to an alcoholic.
Clara's breathing deepened. Against her hip, Sebastian felt the damning evidence: No reaction. His body remained stubbornly disinterested in Valentina's curated perfection, yet now stirred against Clara's terrycloth shield.
Chemical warfare, he thought grimly. Her pheromones were a targeted bio-weapon.
Outside, snow began falling over Central Park. Sebastian memorized the weight of Clara against him—the fragile birdcage of her ribs, the hitch when his thumb brushed her navel.
He'd commanded her presence to reassert control. Instead, she'd weaponized service. Fed him. Cleansed his wounds. Now shackled him with... tenderness?
Clara murmured in sleep, burrowing closer. Sebastian froze.
Checkmate, he realized. The dragon just invited the thief into its hoard.