《After Secretly Giving Birth to the Heir, I Was Wanted Across the City by the Richest Man》

Pain. My head was killing me. It felt like someone was hacking at my temples, one brutal blow at a time, with a rusty, blunt axe. I forced my heavy eyelids open; my vision stayed fuzzy for several seconds before finally snapping into focus. What came into view wasn’t the yellowing ceiling of my cheap rented room, but a stunning Swarovski crystal chandelier. Its hanging tassels caught the morning sunlight and shattered it into blinding sparks. Where… am I? Instinctively, I tried to roll over and sit up—only to suck in a sharp breath. A bolt of agony shot through me. My whole body felt like it had been taken apart and reassembled wrong, especially my waist and legs. That unspeakable soreness instantly dragged last night’s missing memories back from the dark. Last night… The memories came rushing in like a tide, jumbled and fragmented—but vivid enough to make my face burn. A stormy night. My rented apartment. A birthday cake. A set of car keys. And the betrayal of my scumbag boyfriend and my so-called best friend. I had staggered into “The Night,” the most exclusive bar in Manhattan. To get back at that cheating pair of scumbags, I’d knocked back five shots of hard liquor in a row, then lurched my way up to the second floor—to that VVIP booth people said was reserved only for the truly powerful. There was a man sitting there. Even in the dim lighting, he was stunning. A pure black, tailored suit; ice-blue eyes as cold as a glacier; and a ring of black-suited bodyguards with faces like hired killers. Any sane person would’ve bolted at the sight. But last night, emboldened by alcohol, I had strutted straight over, and—under the astonished gaze of everyone present—plopped myself right down on that man’s lap. I even remember my own wandering hand, lifting his chin with a shameless little tilt as I slurred, eyes hazy with drink: “Hey, handsome. Not bad…” “Name your price.” “Tonight, you’re mine.” Oh. My. God. I slapped my hands over my face and buried my head in the soft pillow, wishing I could die on the spot. Serena, are you insane?! You actually picked up some random guy in a club? And judging from that aura and the army of bodyguards around him, he was definitely not some regular gigolo. With my luck, I’d probably just slept with the bar’s… top-ranked king of escorts. The sound of running water drifted out from the bathroom. He was in there. Taking a shower. I stiffly turned my head and stared at the closed frosted-glass door, my heart hammering in my throat. Run. I have to run. Now. Whoever he is, once he comes out and sees I’m broke, he’s definitely going to demand some sky-high overnight fee. I can barely afford my rent; where am I supposed to get money to pay a top-shelf escort like that? Biting back the protest of my aching body, I scrambled to gather my clothes from the plush carpet. My cheap beige trench coat looked like it had been twisted into a wrinkled rag, and my underwear… who knew where that had flown off to. Dignity could go to hell—I just yanked on whatever I could find. Right as I was about to bolt, my gaze landed on the nightstand. That was clearly the man’s territory: a Patek Philippe gold watch that screamed money, and a delicate crystal ashtray. My steps faltered. The Vance family motto suddenly echoed in my mind: Take responsibility. Pay for what you buy… If you sleep with a man, you pay up. Sure, it was a drunken mess, but I was the one who had thrown myself at him first. If I just ran without paying, wouldn’t that make me a freeloader? “But I really don’t have any money…” Gritting my teeth, I dug out my sad, skinny wallet from my bag. Inside were a few crumpled bills—that was supposed to be my living expense for the week. I pulled everything out and counted. One hundred-dollar bill, two fifties, and a few smaller notes. “Two hundred and twenty dollars…” I glanced nervously toward the bathroom and swallowed. For someone of his… caliber, two hundred bucks should… probably… maybe be enough, right? His attitude had been a bit on the aggressive side, but with that face and that body, he was definitely top-tier. “Whatever. I’ll treat it as a generous tip.” I smoothed the two hundred and twenty dollars into a neat stack and laid it on the nightstand. After a moment’s thought, I decided that wasn’t formal enough, so I grabbed a hotel notepad and the fancy gold pen beside it, and scrawled a line: Nice skills. Temper’s a bit foul, but the body makes up for it. This is your tip—keep the change! I even drew a big smiling face at the end. Once that was done, I grabbed my bag, tiptoed to the heavy carved door, held my breath, eased it open—and bolted like a mouse that had just stolen a whole wheel of cheese. … Five minutes later. The shower shut off. Damien Sinclair walked out, a white towel slung low around his hips. Damp black hair was slicked back from his forehead, revealing features as sharp and cold as a Greek statue. Droplets of water slid down his hard chest, tracing the lines of taut muscle before disappearing into a lean waist. He radiated a dangerous, intoxicating kind of masculinity. His mood was… complicated. There was even a flicker of something unfamiliar: amusement. For twenty-eight years, he’d suffered from a severe “female allergy”—any physical contact with a woman triggered a suffocating, visceral rejection. But that drunk little maniac who had barged in last night… was an exception. He’d spent an entire night tangled up with her, skin to skin. No allergic reaction. In fact, he’d wanted more. Naturally, Damien’s gaze drifted to the messy bed. He fully expected to see the woman curled up there like a sleepy kitten. Instead— The bed was empty. Gone? His brows lifted slightly, those ice-blue eyes turning several degrees colder. Sleep with him and run? This woman had guts. His gaze dropped to the nightstand. There was no woman there—only a crumpled little stack of green bills and a hotel-branded notepad. Damien crossed the room in a few long strides and picked up the note between two fingers. “Nice skills… your tip… keep the change?!” His eyes shifted to the money. Two hundred… and twenty dollars? “Heh.” A low, humorless chuckle scraped out of his throat, chilling the air in the enormous presidential suite. He, the head of the Sinclair family. The underground emperor with his hands on the pulse of the global economy. A man worth trillions. And last night, after going at it the entire night, a woman had actually mistaken him for a male escort? And valued him at two hundred bucks? That wasn’t even enough to pay for a single glass of water he drank. Crack. The note crumbled to powder in his fist. A vein pulsed at his temple as flames of fury flared in his deep gaze. Very good. Serena, was it? You have my full attention now. “Ethan!” His roar ripped through the thick door. A few seconds later, his assistant Ethan rushed in, practically shaking, and was immediately crushed under the suffocating pressure of his boss’s murderous mood. “B-Boss… wh-what happened?” Damien jabbed a finger at the two hundred dollars on the table and ground out, enunciating every word: “Find her.” “Turn all of New York upside down if you have to—just find the woman from last night.” “I’m going to make her see, with her own eyes, exactly how much I’m worth.” He hooked a finger through the lacy scrap of lingerie she’d left behind, then tightened his grip. “Woman, you’re not getting away.”