THE LOST VALENTINE

CHAPTER 1

Olivia's POV

They say your worst moment always happens in front of everyone who matters. Mine happened at my own engagement party.

"I can't do this anymore, Olivia."

Marcus Williams stood in the center of the ballroom, microphone in hand, his face twisted with something that looked like relief. Around us, three hundred guests went silent. The string quartet stopped mid-note.

I stood there in my white cocktail dress, the one I'd saved three months to buy, and felt the floor turn to quicksand beneath my designer heels.

"What are you talking about?" My voice came out small. Confused. Like a child who didn't understand why the game had suddenly changed.

Marcus looked at me the way you'd look at something stuck to your shoe. "You're boring, Olivia. Bland. Like oatmeal nobody asked for."

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Actual laughter.

My best friend Sienna pushed through the masses, her red dress catching the light. For a second, I thought she was coming to save me. To tell Marcus he was being cruel.

Instead, she walked right up to him and pressed her body against his side.

"We didn't want to hurt you," Sienna said, but her smile said otherwise. "But Marcus and I have been together for six months. We're in love. Real love."

The room spun.

Six months.

While I'd been planning this party. Picking out flowers. Tasting cakes. Choosing between ivory and cream for napkins that apparently didn't matter.

"I'm sorry you had to find out this way," Marcus continued, and he actually had the nerve to look sympathetic. "But it's better this way. Clean break."

Someone's phone flashed. Then another. By tomorrow, I'd be a meme. The girl who got dumped at her own engagement party.

I wanted to scream. To throw something. To set the whole place on fire.

Instead, I did the only thing I could do.

I left.

---

Two hours later, I was on my fourth drink at the Pearson Hotel bar, and the room had started to feel pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.

"Another," I told the bartender, pushing my glass forward.

"You sure about that?" The voice came from my left. Deep. Rough. The kind of voice that made you think of dark rooms and bad decisions.

I turned to tell whoever it was to mind their own business, and the words died in my throat.

He was gorgeous. Not pretty-boy gorgeous like Marcus. This man was all sharp edges and controlled power. Dark hair styled perfectly. A jaw that could cut glass. Eyes so intense they made my stomach flip.

He wore a black suit that probably cost more than my car, and he looked at me like I was the only person in the room.

"I'm very sure," I said, lifting my chin.

His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Rough night?"

"You could say that."

He slid onto the stool next to me, and I caught his scent. Expensive cologne. Something woody and clean. It made me want to lean closer.

"Want to talk about it?" he asked.

"Not even a little bit." I grabbed my fresh drink. "I want to forget about it."

"I can help with that."

The way he said it made heat pool low in my belly. This was dangerous. I didn't do this. I was the good girl. The one who waited. Who planned. Who did everything right.

And where had that gotten me?

Humiliated in front of everyone I knew. Cheated on. Discarded like trash.

I met his eyes. "How?"

He leaned in, close enough that I could feel his breath against my ear. "Come upstairs with me."

Every rational thought in my head screamed no. This was crazy. I didn't even know his name. But something reckless had woken up inside me, something that was tired of being good and getting nothing for it.

"Okay," I whispered.

---

His suite was on the top floor. Penthouse level. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, furniture that looked like art, a bed the size of my entire apartment.

The door clicked shut behind us, and suddenly the alcohol buzz wasn't enough to drown out reality. What was I doing? I didn't do one-night stands. I'd only been with Marcus. Only him. For three years.

"Second thoughts?" The stranger studied me with those dark eyes.

"I don't even know your name," I said.

"Does it matter?"

It should have. But tonight, nothing mattered. Tonight, I just wanted to feel something other than broken.

"No," I said. "It doesn't."

He crossed the space between us in two strides, and then his mouth was on mine. Hot. Demanding. Nothing like Marcus's careful kisses.

This kiss consumed. Devoured. Made me forget my own name.

His hands slid into my hair, tilting my head back as he deepened the kiss. I pressed against him, feeling the hard planes of his body through our clothes. This was insane. Reckless.

Perfect.

He walked me backward until my legs hit the bed, and I fell onto those expensive sheets. He followed me down, his weight pressing me into the mattress in a way that made me gasp.

"Last chance to run," he murmured against my throat.

I grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer. "I'm done running."

---

I woke up to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and an empty bed.

For a second, I didn't remember where I was. Then it all came crashing back. The party. Marcus. Sienna. The bar.

The stranger.

Oh god.

I sat up, clutching the sheet to my chest. My dress was on the floor. My shoes by the door. Evidence of what I'd done scattered across expensive carpet.

A note sat on the nightstand, written in bold handwriting.

"Thank you for last night. You're extraordinary."

No name. No number. Just those words.

I should have felt relieved. This was easier. Cleaner. No messy morning-after conversation.

Instead, I felt hollow.

I gathered my things and left before anyone could see me doing the walk of shame through the Pearson Hotel lobby. My phone was dead, which was probably for the best. I didn't want to see the messages. The posts. The pictures.

My aunt Martha was waiting when I got home, her face pinched with worry.

"Olivia, sweetheart. I saw what happened. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I lied.

"That boy is a fool. You deserve so much better."

I wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe that last night meant I was moving on. Starting over.

I had no idea that six weeks later, I'd be staring at two pink lines on a pregnancy test.

Or that the stranger from the bar was Harvey Pearson.

Billionaire CEO. Marcus's boss.

And the most dangerous man I'd ever met.