The Cold Awakening​

Evelyn Carter stood frozen in the hotel corridor, her fingers clutching her phone so tightly the edges dug into her palm. The call had ended minutes ago, but Adrian’s words still echoed in her skull like a death knell.

"Thank you for liking me all these years."

As if her love—her faith in him—was nothing more than a childish infatuation he was graciously acknowledging before discarding.

A gust of wind from the elevator shaft whipped past her, slicing through the thin fabric of her dress. She barely felt it. The cold had already seeped into her bones, turning her blood to ice.

This isn’t happening.

She had woken up this morning believing she’d given herself to the man she loved. Believing that after years of waiting, Adrian Whitmore had finally chosen her.

Instead, she’d been handed a knife to the heart by the very person she trusted most.

Her legs gave out. She caught herself against the wall, nails scraping the ornate wallpaper.

Who was in that room last night?

The question clawed at her insides. She remembered heat. Hands. A voice growling "Look at me" in the dark—but the face was a blur.

And the worst part?

I liked it.

The shame of that realization burned hotter than the bruises on her skin.

Evelyn forced herself to move, stumbling toward the elevator. She needed to get out of here before—

The doors slid open.

A man stepped out.

Tall. Impeccably dressed in a tailored Armani suit. Dark hair swept back from a face so brutally handsome it stole her breath.

Their eyes met.

Recognition flickered in his gaze—cold, calculating.

Evelyn’s stomach dropped.

Oh God.

Him.

She knew that face. Everyone did.

Alexander Blackwood.

CEO of Blackwood Holdings.

The Devil of Wall Street.

And the man who had—

Her throat closed. She lunged for the elevator, stabbing the button repeatedly.

Too late.

Alexander’s voice, low and deliberate, curled around her like smoke.

"Running already, little butterfly?"

The doors slid shut between them.

But not before she saw his smile.