SEDUCED BY THE RUTHLESS BILLIONAIRE

The grand ballroom of the Metropolitan Tower shimmered under a sea of crystal chandeliers, the air thick with the clinking of champagne flutes and the murmur of New York’s elite. Lena Carter clutched her borrowed clutch purse tighter, her palms sweating. She didn’t belong here. Not in this $500 cocktail dress her roommate had forced her into. Not among these people who carried fortunes in their watch straps. And certainly not standing three feet away from Julian Thorne. She recognized him immediately. The sharp cut of his jawline, the way he stood like a king surveying his empire. His tailored tuxedo probably cost more than her student loans. CEO of Thorne Industries. Manhattan’s most ruthless billionaire. The man whose family had destroyed hers. Lena turned away, heart pounding. Just get through the night. Grab some free food. Leave. Then fate or karma, or whatever cruel force governed her life intervened. A waiter bumped into her. The champagne flute slipped from her fingers. Time slowed as crystal shattered against marble, golden liquid splashing across his shoes those impossibly expensive, hand-stitched Oxfords. Silence. Then, a voice like velvet-wrapped steel: "Look what you’ve done to my shoes." Lena’s breath hitched, Slowly, she lifted her gaze. Julian Thorne was staring down at her, his gray eyes glacial. Up close, he was even more intimidating. Taller. Broader. His presence sucked the oxygen from the room. The scent of his cologne something dark and expensive wrapped around her like a threat. "I" Her voice came out embarrassingly small. She cleared her throat. "I’m sorry. It was an accident." "Accidents," he said, flicking champagne droplets off his cufflinks, "are for people who can afford them." Lena’s spine stiffened. She wasn’t some clumsy intern. She was Lena freaking Carter—top of her class at Columbia, youngest architect ever shortlisted for the Sterling Prize. She forced a smile. "How much for the shoes? I’ll write you a check." A murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone gasped. Julian’s lips twitched not a smile, but something more dangerous. "Three thousand dollars. But I don’t take checks from strangers." "Lena Carter." She thrust out her hand, ignoring the way her fingers trembled. "Not a stranger anymore." The moment her name left her lips, his expression changed. Something dark flickered in his eyes. Recognition. Calculation. Something. "Carter," he repeated, testing the name like a blade against his tongue. The air between them crackled. Then "Mr. Thorne!" A woman in a sequined gown rushed over. "The investors are waiting" Julian didn’t look away from Lena. "They can wait." Her pulse skyrocketed. He stepped closer, invading her space. His voice dropped, for her ears only: "You and I need to talk."