Echelon

Chapter Seven

Carrie's heels clicked unevenly against the marble as she moved toward the staircase. Her body swayed with the music, her head hazy from the rum, but determination pushed her forward. She barely noticed that the velvet rope that usually blocked the way upstairs had been pulled aside. Security was gone, pulled away by the chaos of another VIP's entourage, some politician with too many bodyguards, all demanding attention. For the first time that night, the way up was clear.

She climbed, clutching the railing as the bass softened behind her, replaced by the muffled throb of music seeping through the walls. The second floor was quieter, darker, a world away from the chaos below.

Seven golden doors lined the hallway, each one marked not with numbers but with glowing LED logos. Strange designs, abstract shapes, almost like coats of arms, each claiming territory for Manila's untouchable elite. Carrie squinted, her vision swimming. One had a dragon. Another, a pair of crossed swords. One looked like a stylized crown.

Her gaze landed on a door with a circle pattern glowing faintly in neon. In her drunken haze, it looked enough like the women's washroom symbol that she latched onto it.

"This must be it," she muttered.

She turned the golden knob. To her surprise, it opened.

The suite was dimly lit, washed in red and indigo from hidden strip lights. A velvet lounge curved around the room, low tables glittered with half-drained bottles, and the air was thick with leather, smoke, and the sweetness of spilled champagne. Built-in fridges glowed faintly along the wall, stocked with unopened liquor.

On the side, a door stood ajar, revealing marble, gold fixtures, and towels folded like origami. The private washroom. Relief washed over her as she stumbled inside. She dropped onto the cool toilet seat, fumbling with her skirt, and finally let go. Her eyes fluttered shut, her body sagging in release. She sighed, muttered a laugh, and shook her head. For a brief moment, everything, the anger, the waiting, the sting of failure, melted.

When she emerged, tugging her skirt back into place, she checked her reflection in the mirror. Her hair had fallen loose, tumbling in uneven strands, her lipstick smudged at the corner of her mouth, her cheeks flushed with heat and alcohol. She looked nothing like the polished editor-in-chief of Echelon. She looked softer, unguarded, almost like a stranger.

She stepped back into the suite.

And froze.

A figure stood there, tall and broad, the shadows cutting his frame into sharp lines. He was leaning back slightly, one hand tucked into his pocket, but there was no mistaking the dominance in the way he filled the room. The light shifted across his jawline, across the sharp curve of his cheekbones, and then landed on his eyes, dark, steady, fixed entirely on her.

Carrie's heel slipped on the polished floor, her body pitching forward for a moment. She caught herself against the back of the lounge, her palm flat on the velvet, her heart punching hard in her chest.

Then she smelled him.

Not just cologne, though there was that, something expensive and deliberate, a mix of sandalwood and smoke, but the raw scent of skin, leather, and sweat. A masculine heat that wrapped around her, invasive and intimate, as if the room itself carried him.

It was familiar, dangerously familiar.

Her chest tightened, not with fear but with recognition.

Andrew Lorenzo.

The realization hit her like a slap, sobering and electrifying in the same breath. She hadn't stumbled into a restroom. She hadn't wandered into anonymity. She had walked straight into his private suite.

The room fell silent.

They stared at each other, the muffled bass below reduced to the slow, heavy beat of her heart. Carrie stood flushed and disheveled, her skirt rumpled, her hair wild, her lips smeared. Embarrassment crawled hot over her skin, a biting reminder that she was not supposed to be here. That she looked nothing like the woman who demanded respect in boardrooms and editorial meetings.

Andrew said nothing. His eyes slid over her slowly, deliberate, lingering at her mouth, her flushed cheeks, the way her chest rose and fell a little too fast. His silence stretched, oppressive and magnetic, pulling her in against her will.

Then, finally, his brows lifted.

He arched them in that infuriating way, as if the universe had just handed him the most entertaining twist of the night. His lips curved, slow and lazy, into a grin that carried amusement, mockery, and something else, curiosity.

It wasn't a friendly smile. It wasn't even cruel. It was the grin of a man who had been caught off guard and decided to enjoy it.

His eyes didn't let go of hers.

And Carrie felt a rush of heat crawl down her neck, pooling low in her stomach. Irritation flared hotter, because Andrew Lorenzo had no right to look at her like that. No right to make her feel as if her trespass wasn't a mistake at all, but a scene he had been waiting to watch.

For the first time all night, Carrie Tuazon, the woman who prided herself on control, forgot how to breathe.