The ballroom of The Monarch Hotel smelled like money, desperation, and cheap perfume disguised under expensive labels.

Declan Ward stood near the bar, fingers wrapped around a glass of scotch he barely tasted. The knot of his tie was already loose, his shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, revealing the edge of the watch she had gifted him last.

Her.

His eyes drifted to the entrance for the tenth time that hour, even though he knew she wasn't coming. She had called earlier, apologizing in that soft, breathless way she had when she was rushing between meetings. Something about a last-minute board decision, something about not being able to leave the city tonight.

He understood. Of course he did. She was brilliant at what she did, and he admired her for it. But none of that stopped the ache sitting low in his chest as the minutes dragged on without her.

The parties were always more tolerable when she was there.

She would've hated this crowd.

He could almost picture her standing beside him, making sarcastic comments under her breath about the plastic smiles and forced laughter. Her hand curled possessively around his arm, her perfume lingering on his collar.

Instead...

"You're brooding again, Mr. Ward."

The voice pulled him out of his spiral of thoughts.

Sienna Lane.

Declan turned his head slowly.

She stood there with that same practiced smile, wearing a red satin dress that barely qualified as formal wear. Thin straps hung from her shoulders, the fabric clinging to every curve, stopping dangerously high on her thighs. Her makeup was heavier than usual, lips glossy and red, and her eyes outlined in dark kohl.

If there was a definition for 'trying too hard', she was it.

His secretary. Efficient, sharp-tongued in emails, but always too familiar for his taste in moments like this.

"I'm working," he said, raising the glass to his lips without looking at her again.

Her laugh was soft and sticky sweet, like honey laced with something sharp.

"You call this working? Come on, relax a little." Her fingers brushed against his sleeve, a light touch that made him tense instantly. "You're too tense for a man with your... resources."

He shifted his arm away, finishing the drink in one swallow. The alcohol hit fast. Too fast.

Another drink appeared in front of him. Sienna again. This time something darker, richer, with a bite that burned all the way down.

"One more won't kill you," she teased, leaning in close enough for her perfume to drown him.

I should stop. Text her. Tell her I love her. Go home and wait for her call.

But the room was spinning.

And then came the third drink.

The floor seemed farther away. The lights blurred at the edges. Conversations became noise, like waves crashing somewhere far.

He caught flashes: Sienna's voice, her laugh too close to his ear, the sensation of being guided through the crowd, the cool night air hitting his face as she helped him into a car.

The rest...

Nothing.

**

The next thing he knew, he was waking up to sunlight stabbing through the half-closed curtains of his bedroom.

Declan's head throbbed like it had been split open. His mouth was dry, his stomach turning with nausea.

What the hell...

He tried to sit up but the weight of a dull, unfamiliar warmth kept him pinned.

When he turned his head, the breath left his lungs.

Sienna.

Wrapped in his bedsheets, the white fabric barely covering her chest. Her hair was a tangled mess, makeup smeared under her eyes, giving her that fake post-sex glow women like her perfected.

Her voice came soft, syrupy, with that fucking smile.

"Morning, boss..."

She stretched lazily, letting the sheet fall just enough to expose the curve of her breast before catching it again with a laugh.

"You were... unbelievable last night," she purred, pulling the blanket higher with fake modesty. "Didn't know you had that side to you."

Declan's heart dropped.

Flashes of the night before came in broken fragments. The hotel. The drinks. Her hands on him. The struggle to stay conscious.

No. No, this can't...

His shirt was halfway open, pants discarded somewhere near the foot of the bed.

The panic set in hard and fast, adrenaline burning through the alcohol still lingering in his system.

He shoved the blankets off, scrambling to find his clothes, breathing too fast, vision tunneling.

And just when he managed to pull the shirt over his shoulders, the sound that made his blood run cold echoed from the front door.

Keys turning in the lock.

The door opening.

Familiar footsteps on hardwood floors.

Her footsteps.

No... not now...

The bedroom door swung open before he could say a word.

There she was.

Standing there in the doorway.

Eyes wide. Frozen.

Her gaze dropping from him—disheveled and panicked—to Sienna, still tangled in his sheets, still wearing that smug, sleepy smile.

Before Declan could even find air in his lungs, the words escaped, raw and desperate:

"It's not what it looks like."

And for the first time in years, he didn't believe himself either.