Chapter 1 - The Threshold of Desperation
The heavy oak door of Room 714 at the Grand Sovereign Hotel loomed before Rowena like the entrance to a vault. She stared at the brushed-brass brass numbers, her heart hammering against her ribs so violently she could feel it in her teeth. The carpet beneath her cheap heels was thick, plush, and swallowed the sound of her trembling feet. Everything about this place bled opulence—the dim amber sconces, the faint scent of sandalwood and leather, the quiet hum of a high-rise tower looking down on the glittering, ruthless skyline of Chicago.
She held her small leather handbag against her stomach like a shield. Inside was a fresh envelope of cash, her ID, and her grandmother’s gold signet ring, which she had been nervously spinning around her finger until her skin turned red.
Work hard. Love honestly. Never shrink yourself to make a weak man feel tall.
Cecile’s three rules echoed in Rowena’s mind, competing with the memory of Dylan’s petty, defensive voice back in the hospital parking garage. You went through my phone? He hadn't apologized. He hadn't asked for forgiveness. He had merely been offended that his quiet, obedient wife had finally opened her eyes to his rot. After leaving him standing beside his car, Rowena had signed the divorce papers her lawyer had drawn up weeks prior, leaving them on the kitchen counter of their shared townhouse alongside her house keys.
Now, there was no turning back.
The woman on the phone—the cool, anonymous voice from The Service—had given her strict instructions. Friday at 9:00 PM. Suite 714. Keycard will be under the door mat. Enter silently. Do not ask for names. The donor has been thoroughly vetted, medically cleared, and briefed on absolute anonymity.
Rowena bent down, her hands shaking as her fingers found the thin plastic card tucked under the edge of the plush welcome runner. She slid it into the electronic lock. A faint green light flashed, followed by a heavy, mechanical click that sounded like the snap of a trap.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The suite was vast, bathed in soft, shadows cast by a single floor lamp in the far corner. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of the city blanketed in a light rain. A king-sized bed dominated the elevated bedroom area, dressed in crisp white linens that looked stark in the dim light.
"Hello?" Rowena’s voice was barely a whisper, swallowed instantly by the sheer size of the room.
Silence answered her.
She took three hesitant steps forward, her heels sinking into the carpet. She set her handbag on the sleek marble console table by the entrance. Her breath hitched in her throat. Her mind raced with terrifying scenarios—what if this was a mistake? What if the man waiting for her was grotesque, dangerous, or cruel?
"You're five minutes late, Rowena."
The voice didn't come from the bedroom. It came from the high-backed leather armchair positioned in the shadows near the floor-to-ceiling glass.
May you like
It was a deep, velvety baritone—rich, commanding, and laced with an icy edge that sent a violent shockwave straight down her spine. But it wasn't the authority in the tone that made her freeze.
It was the fact that he had used her name.
