Devil’s Heiress

4 *THE MORNING AFTER*

Evelyn woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows she didn't recognize, in a bed that felt like it cost more than most people's cars. Her head pounded like a construction site, her mouth tasted like she'd been gargling with regret, and she was completely, utterly naked.

The events of the previous night crashed back in waves of mortification. The club. The vodka. The devastatingly dangerous man with blood on his knuckles and sin in his smile. The way he'd looked at her like she was something worth consuming whole. The way he tied her up.

And then—oh God—what they'd done in this very bed.

She bolted upright, clutching Egyptian cotton sheets to her chest, her heart hammering against her ribs. Beside her, the bed was empty but still warm, the indent of a large body pressed into memory foam worth more than her yearly coffee budget.

Nico. The name rolled through her mind like smoke, bringing with it flashes of strong hands and clever mouth and the kind of intensity that should have terrified her but instead had made her feel more alive than she had in years.

"What the hell did I do?" she whispered to the empty room.

The sound of running water from an adjoining bathroom made her freeze. He was still here. Still in this penthouse that screamed money and danger and power that could crush her without even noticing.

She needed to leave. Now. Before he came back and saw her in the harsh light of day—hungover, mascara-stained, and looking like the hot mess she absolutely was.

Moving as quietly as possible, she slipped from the bed and began gathering her scattered clothes. Her dress was a designer wreck, torn in places she didn't remember, but it would have to do. She pulled it on with shaking hands, not bothering with her underwear—wherever those had ended up was a mystery for someone else to solve.

The bathroom door was still closed, steam seeping under the crack. She could hear him moving around, humming something low and rough that made her stomach flutter with unwanted heat.

Focus, Evelyn. Get out before this gets worse.

She grabbed her heels and purse, cast one last look at the rumpled bed that held evidence of her spectacular fall from grace, and made for what she hoped was the exit.

The penthouse was a maze of marble and steel, all sharp edges and expensive art that probably cost more than small countries' GDP. She felt like an intruder in someone else's perfectly curated life, leaving invisible fingerprints on everything she passed.

She found the elevator just as panic really set in. What if he came out of the bathroom? What if he expected her to stay for breakfast and small talk? What if he wanted to exchange numbers and pretend last night was the beginning of something instead of the spectacular ending of her sanity?

The elevator arrived with a soft ding that sounded like salvation. She threw herself inside, jabbing the lobby button repeatedly until the doors finally closed.

As the floors counted down, so did her composure. By the time she reached the street, she was practically hyperventilating.

---

Meanwhile, four floors up, Nico emerged from his shower to find his bed empty and his mysterious princess gone.

He stood there for a long moment, water droplets still clinging to his skin, staring at the rumpled sheets that smelled like expensive perfume and something indefinably feminine. On his nightstand, her earrings glittered like tiny diamonds—the only proof she'd been real.

His head felt strangely foggy, which was impossible. He could drink most men under the table and wake up clear-headed enough to run a hostile takeover. But this morning, his thoughts moved like they were swimming through honey.

What the hell happened last night?

He remembered the club. The woman—Evelyn—flying into his arms like chaos personified. The way she'd looked at him without fear, had actually seemed amused by his reputation. The drinking contest that had turned into something else entirely.

But the rest was fragments. Hot skin and desperate mouths and the kind of hunger that consumed rational thought. The way she'd looked at him like he was salvation and damnation rolled into one perfectly dangerous package. The warmth between her thighs.

And now she was gone, vanished like smoke, leaving him with questions and a head full of cotton.

His phone buzzed. Leo.

"Boss, we've got a problem with the Chen situation. He's talking to people he shouldn't be talking to."

"Handle it," Nico said automatically, but his mind was elsewhere. Something about last night felt wrong. Off. Like pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit together.

Had she drugged him? The thought hit like ice water. It would explain the memory gaps, the way his usually steel-trap mind felt fuzzy around the edges. But why? Who was she working for?

"Leo," he said, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. "I need you to find someone."

"Sure, Boss. Who?"

"A woman. Evelyn. About twenty-five, green eyes, blonde hair. Upper East Side accent. Claims her family disowned her yesterday."

"Any last name?"

Nico thought back, sifting through vodka-soaked conversations. "Hawthorne. She said her name was Evelyn Hawthorne."

The silence on the other end of the line stretched too long.

"Boss," Leo said carefully, "did you say Hawthorne? As in Hawthorne Industries?"

"You know her?"

"Know of her. She's Manhattan royalty. Or was, until yesterday when the family announced her sister Sabrina was taking over the company. Word is there was some kind of scandal—"

"Find her," Nico cut him off. "I want to know everything. Where she goes, who she talks to, what she had for breakfast. Everything."

"Sure thing, Boss. Any particular reason?"

Nico's fingers tightened on the phone. "Call it professional curiosity."

After he hung up, he walked to the window overlooking the city. Somewhere out there, his mysterious princess was probably congratulating herself on whatever con she'd pulled. If she thought she could drug Nico Moretti and walk away clean, she was about to learn just how wrong rich girls could be.