Today was supposed to be the five-year anniversary of Genevieve Carter’s relationship with Benjamin Cole. A day that should have been filled with love and celebration had turned into the worst nightmare of her life.

Not only had Benjamin secretly started a relationship with her half-sister, but her father, Logan Carter, was using her as a pawn in his business negotiations, forcing her into marriage with Blake Jordan—the notorious playboy heir of the Jordan Group.

Genevieve refused.

The confrontation with her father had been explosive, leaving her seething with anger. But Logan Carter was a man who always got his way. When persuasion failed, he resorted to control—freezing all her bank accounts and credit cards, hoping to break her will.

Unfortunately for him, Genevieve had learned self-reliance after her mother’s death. She had her own money, her own life beyond the walls of the Carter mansion. And that night, she made a decision.

She packed a bag, walked out, and checked into a hotel.

With her emotions in turmoil, she made another choice—one she never thought she would. She went to a bar.

Genevieve had only been to a bar once before—after losing her mother. She swore never to step into one again. But heartbreak had a way of pushing people toward reckless decisions.

Drink after drink, she drowned herself in liquor, the memories of Benjamin and his betrayal cutting deep. Tears fell freely as she sat in the dimly lit corner of the bar, feeling the weight of loneliness.

By the time she stumbled back to the hotel, she was completely drunk.

Some staff members tried to help, but she waved them off, mumbling something incoherent. She staggered down the hallway, squinting at the numbers on the doors.

“209… or was it 206?” she muttered, rubbing her blurry eyes. The alcohol made everything spin.

She frowned at the number on the door in front of her. “Who the hell flipped my room number?” Annoyed, she absentmindedly turned the sign around.

Shrugging, she pushed the door open and stumbled inside.

The last thing she remembered was crashing onto the bed before sleep claimed her.

Nathaniel Hayes cursed under his breath.

The icy cold water cascading over his body did nothing to ease the burning heat raging within him. Someone had drugged him—a potent aphrodisiac meant to cripple his self-control.

Only one person could stoop this low.

His half-brother, Ethan.

Nathaniel clenched his jaw. He wasn’t interested in women, and Ethan knew it. This wasn’t just a sick prank—it was a power move. A way to humiliate him.

Ethan had underestimated him.

Nathaniel had endured pain before. He had survived worse. He wasn’t going to let a damn drug dictate his actions.

He stepped out of the shower, water dripping from his sculpted frame, his breath labored. Just as he reached for a towel, his gaze snapped to the bed.

His body tensed.

A woman.

Lying there. Asleep.

His sharp eyes darkened in suspicion. No one had access to his room. His men would never bring him a woman, especially knowing his distaste for them.

So how the hell did she get in?

Nathaniel’s first instinct was that Ethan had planted her here. But as he studied her, something didn’t add up. She was dressed casually—light blue jeans, a simple T-shirt. Nothing about her screamed seduction.

A mistake.

She must have entered the wrong room.

Nathaniel exhaled, forcing his rising frustration under control. He needed to wake her up and send her away before the drug robbed him of his reason.

But just as he moved, she stirred.

Her sleepy eyes fluttered open, and the first thing she saw was him.

Genevieve blinked, her drunken mind struggling to process the striking figure before her. The crisp white shirt clung to his toned chest, the dark trousers emphasizing his powerful frame. A deep blue tie, patterned with subtle floral designs, completed the look. His face—sharp, chiseled, with piercing black eyes—was breathtaking.

A slow smile curved her lips.

“The gigolo I ordered is so handsome,” she murmured.

Nathaniel’s expression froze.

His gaze turned ice-cold, but Genevieve, completely oblivious, propped herself up and squinted at him.

“Do all gigolos look this good?” she asked, tilting her head as if analyzing him.

Nathaniel’s jaw clenched. “What did you just say?”

She ignored his sharp tone. “How much do you charge for a night?” She pouted playfully, her fingers brushing his tie. “If you’re not good enough, I won’t pay, you know.”

Nathaniel’s patience snapped.

“You reckless woman—”

But before he could finish, she leaned in and pressed her lips against his.

The kiss was clumsy, unpracticed. Yet the softness of her lips, the warmth of her breath—it shattered the last thread of his control.

His blood roared.

The aphrodisiac was already messing with his body, and now, with her pressed against him, her scent—a mix of alcohol and something intoxicatingly sweet—pushed him over the edge.

Genevieve barely registered what happened next.

One moment, she was teasing him. The next, she was in his arms, her back hitting the soft bed as he hovered over her.

Nathaniel’s lips found hers again, this time with an intensity that sent shivers down her spine. His hands roamed her body, igniting sensations she never thought possible.

And that night, under the haze of alcohol and a burning need neither of them could fight—everything changed.

The next morning, Genevieve stirred, her body aching in places she never expected.

She groaned, stretching lazily, when something caught her eye.

Her bare skin.

Marked.

Her breath hitched as she yanked the covers up, her pulse racing.

No. No. No.

She turned her head slowly—and froze.

Lying beside her, his arm casually draped across the bed, was the most dangerously handsome man she had ever seen.

Memories from the night before came crashing down, and horror flooded her.

What the hell had she done?