Sinfully Yours

The Astoria Grand Hotel shimmered under chandeliers worth more than Aria Monroe’s entire existence. Gowns swished like whispers, champagne flowed like rivers, and every smile seemed dipped in money and secrets. And there she was—in borrowed black flats, a plain catering uniform clinging to her curves, and a serving tray balanced expertly in her hand like armor. Her dark curls were tucked under a cap, but strands had slipped out, framing her face damp with sweat. It wasn’t even midnight, and her back already ached. She hadn’t eaten. She didn’t have time. Rent was due. Her sister’s hospital called again. And Aria needed this job, even if it meant being invisible in a room full of men who wouldn’t think twice about buying her if she were on a menu instead of holding one. A drunken guest laughed too loud behind her, brushing a hand too low on her waist. She jerked away, biting her lip. “One more hour,” she muttered, slipping into a side corridor to catch her breath. The hallway was a stark contrast—dim, quiet, cold. Her steps softened against the carpet as she leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes. But then— A voice. Deep. Controlled. Dangerous. It came from behind a sleek mahogany door halfway down the hall. Aria’s eyes opened. She hadn’t noticed that door before—no plaque, no number. Just sleek and silent. “…She’s a liability,” someone snapped behind it. “You should’ve handled her already.” “She’s not a concern unless you make her one,” another voice replied—this one lower, silken, but laced with authority. She should have walked away. She should have turned around and forgotten she ever heard a thing. Instead, she took one step closer. Then another. The handle turned. Aria barely had time to move when the door opened—and he stepped out. Tall. Towering. Every inch of him reeked of control and danger. The man’s suit clung to a body built from power, not vanity. His eyes were the first thing she noticed—ice-gray, emotionless, scanning her in a way that made her skin burn. He didn’t speak. Neither did she. Behind him, the room was shrouded in shadows. A low-hanging light revealed a table with scattered photographs, thick bundles of cash, and—was that a gun? Her breath caught in her throat. The man didn’t look back. His stare stayed locked on hers. Aria’s legs tensed, ready to run. “I—I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I didn’t mean to—this isn’t the—” He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. “Name,” he said softly. A command. “I… I work with the caterers. I thought this was the—” “Your name,” he repeated. “Not your excuse.” His voice slid over her skin like velvet—soft, rich, terrifying. She stood straighter. “Aria.” He tilted his head. “Aria.” The way he said it felt like a test. Like he was tasting it. “How old are you?” She blinked. “That’s none of your—” “Twenty-two,” he said before she could finish. “Barely enough to be serving drinks in this hotel, let alone wandering down the wrong hallway.” “I said I was sorry.” “You’re standing in front of a door that doesn’t exist. In a corridor you’re not allowed to walk. Apologies don’t undo that, sweetheart.” She took a step back, heart hammering in her chest. “I’ll go.” He didn’t move. “Go ahead.” She turned—and then felt it. His hand. Large, warm, firm—closing around her wrist. Not rough. Not cruel. But unrelenting. “You’re not afraid of me,” he murmured. Aria froze. Her breath hitched. “Should I be?” His lips twitched, almost a smirk. “Most people are.” “I’m not most people.” His hand tightened fractionally. “No, you’re not.” Her pulse thudded beneath his grip. His touch wasn’t erotic—yet it sent shivers up her arm. It wasn’t what he did. It was how he did it. Controlled. Calculated. Like he knew how to make someone beg without even lifting a finger. “I have to get back,” she said quietly, not daring to break eye contact. He looked at her for a long moment, then let go. “Next time,” he said, stepping back, “knock before walking into the lion’s den.” Aria didn’t run. She walked, fast and furious, back toward the ballroom, her mind racing. Who was that man? What kind of conversation had she just interrupted? And why, even now, could she still feel his hand on her skin like it had branded her? She didn’t know it yet—but her life had just shifted. ⸻ Later that night, after hours of cleaning spilled champagne and brushing off wandering hands, Aria finally trudged home. Her apartment was tiny, the building old and cracked, but it was quiet. Safe. She dropped her bag, kicked off her shoes, and went to check her sister’s room. Empty. The silence wasn’t unusual—Callie was spending the night at the hospital for her weekly treatment. But the room felt colder than usual. She sat on the edge of her own bed, exhaling deeply, eyes closed. Then she saw it. An envelope on the floor beneath her door. She hadn’t heard it drop. No address. No name. Just her first instinct: danger. With trembling hands, she opened it. Cash. Stacks of crisp Dollar notes—at least $10,000 worth. And a note. Just one line in sleek black ink: For your sister. Consider it a down payment. —L Aria stared at the words. Her throat went dry. She didn’t know his name. But she knew who it was. The man in the hallway. The one with ice in his voice and shadows in his eyes. And somehow, impossibly, he knew about her sister. Her hands shook as she re-read the note. Fear coiled in her belly like a serpent. Who was he? Why her? Why now? Aria dropped the envelope like it burned her. She ran to the window, yanking the curtain aside— —and saw a black car parked across the street. Lights off. Engine running. The back window rolled down just enough for her to see a flash of silver eyes. Watching her. Waiting.