2025-07-29 22:36:17The soft fingers of morning light crept through the cream curtains and gently kissed the edges of the king-sized bed. The warmth stirred the figure lying there—Emma Robbins, the same lady from the club, her face partially buried in a pillow.
She groaned softly and stretched her arms, still wrapped in a fog of exhaustion. Her head pounded. Her throat was dry. Her body ached in ways she couldn’t explain. The events of last night were buried beneath layers of alcohol-induced haze. She had barely begun moving when her fingertips brushed against something—skin.
Warm. Firm. Human.
Her eyes flew open. She turned slowly, dread creeping up her spine.
A man lay beside her. Deep asleep. Peaceful. And very much naked.
Emma let out a half-scream, half-gasp as she scrambled off the bed, stumbling and nearly falling before catching herself. Her wide eyes scanned the room. Her clothes were everywhere—her red dress draped over the foot of the bed, her shoes beside the minibar, and her expensive Prada purse lying open on the floor like it had been tossed carelessly.
She was also naked.
A cold shiver of humiliation raced across her skin as she snatched the bed cover to wrap around herself. She blinked rapidly, her breathing shallow, heart racing.
“What... what the hell happened?” she whispered to herself.
She stumbled into the bathroom, slammed the door shut, and leaned against it, gasping.
Who is he? How did I get here? Her mind raced, grasping for memories, but the night was a fog, fragmented and cruel.
The marble cold against her feet, and locked the door, her breath ragged. She leaned against the sink, staring into the mirror—her mascara smudged, her lips pale, her eyes haunted.
The night’s pieces flickered: arriving at the Electric Viper, her heart raw from losing the Enzogrande Corporation contract, ordering “something strong, keep it coming.”
The waiter’s hesitant warning, her stubborn insistence—she’d drowned her failure in liquor.
But after? A blank.
She looked down at herself in the mirror, inspecting the subtle signs. There was no doubt about it. Her body had shared something it hadn’t shared in a long time. A man had touched her—last night.
Unprotected.
Her mouth went dry. “You stupid, stupid girl,” she whispered, staring at her reflection. She banged her palm against the wall.
Panic settled in like a thick fog. Who was he? What did they do exactly? Did he even know who she was? Did she scream his name? Or did he just... take her?
Splashing water on her face, she dressed quickly, the red gown clinging to her like a reminder of her lapse.
She cracked open the bathroom door carefully. He was still there. Still asleep. Arms spread like a peaceful soldier finally at rest.
She watched him silently. His features were impossibly symmetrical. Chiseled jaw. Thick lashes. Soft, almost boyish lips. A face too perfect for the chaos he carried behind it.
And somehow... infuriatingly calm.
“I’m panicking, and you’re sleeping like a damn prince,” she muttered.
Her gaze drifted down his lean form, and she winced. Yup. No doubt they did it.
For a moment, she paused, struck by his beauty, a fleeting thought: If this mistake leads to a child, at least they’d be gorgeous.
She shook it off, horrified. Pregnant by a stranger?
He didn’t even look rich—too plain, too ordinary in his black shirt and jeans tossed over a chair.
Gathering her things as quietly as she could, she tiptoed out of the room, still trying not to wake him. By the time she reached her sleek Mercedes in the parking lot, her heart was pounding. Shame. Confusion. Guilt. And a tiny grain of curiosity buried in it all.
Who the hell was that guy?
---
Meanwhile, back in the room…
The same morning sun that had roused Emma now fell across Ethan’s face, lighting up the features of a man unbothered by the world.
His eyes fluttered open.
He sat up and looked around.
The room was pristine—too pristine. Certainly not where he’d fallen asleep last night. He blinked and reached for his head.
Then it came back to him in fragments.
The club. Cobra. The chaos. The fight.
The lady.
He smiled faintly. So that wasn’t a dream.
Then came the alcohol. The lounge. Drinks. More drinks. Laughter. Blurry laughter.
Then… this hotel room.
He looked down and noticed his own bare body. “Ah,” he whispered. “A one-night stand?”
He chuckled. “It’s been a while.”
It was still surreal, adjusting to a bed that wasn’t made of metal, blankets that weren’t government-issue, and silence that wasn’t enforced by fear.
Five years in Fort-tight Maximum Prison had changed his definition of comfort. But this? This was... nice.
In Fort-tight, he’d been the Almighty Master Ethan Northstrum—AMEN to those who bowed—but even his dominion hadn’t softened the prison’s bite.
Still, he couldn’t remember who the woman had been. Mela, the waitress? The woman in red? Someone else?
It didn’t matter now; no foul, no guilt.
He sighed and lay back again. savoring the mattress’s embrace, the city’s hum a distant pulse through the window.
But not for long.
By 10 AM, Ethan rose, his body refreshed but his mind sharp.
The bathroom’s marble gleamed, the shower’s hot spray washing away the night’s excess.
He dressed—black shirt, jeans, the supreme black card a quiet weight in his pocket—and sat at the room’s oak desk, his thoughts turning to purpose.
Freedom was new, raw, a canvas to paint.
Settling down beckoned—a home, a woman to share it—but his mission burned brighter.
The stolen family relic, auctioned again recently, was his destiny’s key, tied to a legacy he barely knew.
Without it, he was adrift, a king without a crown. Today, he’d start the hunt.
As he stood to leave, his foot nudged something—an envelope, half-hidden under a chair, its contents spilling.
He crouched, picking it up, the paper crisp and official.
Enzogrande Corporation was stamped across it, and his pulse quickened.
His eyebrows lifted.
Matthew Witkov’s company—the richest man in the country, who’d named Ethan heir to his $33 trillion empire.
He smiled at the memory.
Three years ago, in Fort-tight’s cold cell, Matthew had knelt, begging for help. The President had sent him, whispering of Ethan’s power to fix the impossible.
Matthew had come to him—a trillionaire in despair, Enzogrande on the brink of collapse, shareholders about to pull out.
“Help me, Master Ethan. Name your price.”
Ethan didn’t want money. He wanted legacy. And when he gave his instructions, Matthew followed them to the letter.
His advice—strategic, precise—had won Matthew Enzogrande, turning a $50 billion venture into a trillion-dollar titan. Ethan’s lips curved, a rare smile. He’d shaped empires from a prison bunk.
Opening the envelope, he found a contract proposal, its pages dense with figures and terms.
A name caught his eye: Emma Robbins, CEO, Norand Interior Limited.
“Well, well,” he said aloud. “A CEO.”
He leaned back in the chair.
So that’s who she is.
His smile widened, a spark of intrigue. The mystery woman—his one-night stand—was a CEO, not just anyone. Yet, he couldn’t recall her face. “Perhaps, it was the damsel in distress last night?”
The red gown, Prada accessories—her wealth made sense now. “Maybe she is the one,” he thought to himself.
Ethan’s mind raced; she was no ordinary fling. If she proved worthy of him—strong, sharp, a match for his fire—he’d consider her for more than a night.
Marriage, even.
Another document peeked from the envelope, but excitement overtook him. He tucked it into his pocket.
“Emma Robbins,” he whispered to himself.
“Let’s see if you’re worthy of the life I’m about to build.”
He opened the hotel door and stepped out into the morning sun.
The hunt—for legacy, destiny, and maybe love—had begun.
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Chapter 239: When monsters are free to roam
Chloe stood frozen for a second in the doorway, the dam of her own pride and anger finally shattered by the night's violence. She had thought she was strong enough to handle issues as an adult. But how wrong she was. If Ethan hadn't shown up, she wouldn't have known what her fate would be by now.A sob, harsh and involuntary, ripped from her throat. She didn't step forward; instead she fell forward, collapsing into her mother’s space.Margaret’s book thudded softly to the carpet. Her arms, which hadn't held her daughter in two decades, came up instinctively, catching her, wrapping around the trembling form.And then, it all poured out. The tears were not gentle; they were a storm, hot and desperate against Margaret’s silk robe. The words were muffled, broken by gasps. "I'm sorry, Mother," Chloe sobbed, her fingers clutching at the fabric. "I was so angry with you. For leaving me behind. For twenty years. I hated you for it."She shook her head violently, burrowing closer as if she c
Chapter 238: The Glided Cage
Later that night, in a part of the city untouched by Robbins family drama, Chloe was a whirlwind of desperate motion in the center of the dance floor in one of the popular night clubs in the city—'the glided cage' as it was called.She wasn’t dancing for joy; she was trying to outrun the ghosts in her head—the mother who’d returned a stranger, the suffocating mansion, the weight of a name that felt like a cage. Jazz and rock fought for dominance in the smoky air, a chaotic soundtrack to her internal storm. She moved like a wounded animal, all frantic energy and no grace, the sharp, sweet smell of expensive gin clinging to her like a second skin.She was barely conscious of the man who sidled up to her, his smile all practiced charm. He matched her movements, said something lost to the music. In her blurred, self-destructive state, he was just another blur, a warm body offering an escape from the thoughts. Numbly, she let him lead her off the floor, up a dimly lit staircase that prom
Chapter 237: A word of gratitude
The drive home was a blur of manicured suburbs and churning thoughts. Jennifer’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, her mind replaying the day’s horrors and oddities on a loop: Emma’s fragile pallor, the wrongness in "Ethan's" eyes, Rose's hissed conversation about "Frank" and "plans." By the time she pulled into the driveway of her mother’s cozy, sensible bungalow—the home she’d moved back into to save money—the anxiety had condensed into a hard, urgent knot in her chest.She found her mother, Helen, in the kitchen, the familiar, comforting scent of rosemary chicken in the oven doing little to soothe her.“Mom,” Jennifer said, her voice sounding strained even to her own ears.Helen turned, her warm, careworn face shifting from welcome to immediate concern. “Jenny? What’s wrong? How is Emma?”That was all it took. The dam broke. Jennifer slumped into a kitchen chair, the words tumbling out in a rushed, hushed torrent. She described seeing Emma—the relief, the worry. Then she
Chapter 236: Something's off
Jennifer stayed a while longer, making quiet, comforting small talk until she saw Emma’s eyelids grow heavy. She tucked the blanket around her, promised to check in tomorrow, and slipped out of the room, closing the door with a soft click.The relief of seeing Emma alive warred with a churning sense of dread in her stomach. The mansion’s usual comforting silence now felt oppressive, every shadow holding a secret. Distracted by her thoughts, she took a wrong turn at the end of the corridor, veering away from the grand staircase and into the less familiar west wing.She realized her mistake when the carpet pattern changed and the portraits on the walls became sterner, older Robbins ancestors. She was about to turn back when a sharp, tense voice sliced through the quiet from a half-open door down the hall.“…don’t care what you think, Frank. The timing is too convenient.”Jennifer froze. It was Rose Robbins’ voice, stripped of its usual theatrical warmth, sharp with frustration and somet
Chapter 235: The imposter
Jennifer stood on the gravel drive for a moment longer, the seed of doubt now a cold, sprouting vine in her chest. The press continued to clamor, but their noise faded into a dull roar as she focused on the closed mansion door. That blank look in his eyes, the seamless, theatrical recovery… no one she knew that well could forget her face entirely, even under extreme stress. A skilled actor could.Steeling herself, she approached the main entrance. The butler, recognizing her, opened the door with a solemn nod, ushering her into the cool, hushed grandeur of the foyer.The air inside was thick with a strange, tense stillness, a stark contrast to the chaos outside. In the main living room, she saw Elizabeth Robbins standing by the fireplace, her posture rigid with a relief that looked almost painful. Beside her was an elegant, unfamiliar woman with sharp, assessing eyes—Margaret, though Jennifer didn’t know that yet.“Jennifer,” Elizabeth said, her voice soft and drained. She offered a
Chapter 234: The cracked mask
The news of Emma Robbins' return broke like a sonic boom across the city. By morning, it was the singular topic on every news outlet, a frantic churn of speculation with depressingly little fact. The lack of official details—no police statement, no family press conference—created a vacuum that gossip and sensationalism rushed to fill.By mid-afternoon, a small but determined pack of journalists and camera crews had gathered at the wrought-iron gates of the Robbins estate, their voices a buzzing, insistent hum. Microphones were thrust toward the intercom. Demands were shouted."What can you tell us about Emma's condition?""Was a ransom paid?""Who was responsible?""Mrs. Robbins! Can you give us a statement?"Inside, the family watched the growing spectacle on security monitors with a mix of exhaustion and dread. The private nightmare was now public property."It has to be addressed," Margaret said, her tone clinical. "Controlled disclosure is better than rampant speculation."Nathan
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