The hotel room still smelled like Damian—cologne, sweat, and lust-soaked sheets. Cara stood under the scalding shower, her palms flat against the cool marble wall, trying to wash off the memory of his mouth, his hands, his body claiming hers like he had a right to it.
She couldn’t forget. And worse—she didn’t want to.
The water didn’t cleanse. It only reminded her she was filthy. Filthy with desire. With danger. With secrets clawing at her from all sides.
By the time she stepped out, her phone buzzed again.
Michael.
“I know everything. Come to the penthouse. We need to talk—alone.”
Her heart dropped into her stomach. She wrapped the towel tighter around her chest. If he knew everything, then he knew she’d been with Damian. He knew someone else had touched what used to belong to him.
