Evelyn’s knees buckled. She caught herself on the edge of the bed, her fingers digging into the mattress.
This isn’t happening.
"Adrian," she choked out, "I was here. In Suite 5203. Last night—"
"5203?" A harsh laugh. "I was in 5210. You gave me the wrong room number. Or was that deliberate?"
Her blood ran cold.
No. No. No.
She had been tipsy, yes, but not that disoriented. She had double-checked the text Adrian sent. 5203.
Hadn’t she?
Her hands trembled as she scrolled through her messages.
There it was—clear as day.
Meet me in 5203 at 10 PM. Don’t be late.
But Adrian was right: his reservation had been for 5210.
Which meant…
The man last night wasn’t Adrian.
Oh God.
She lunged for the wastebasket, vomiting violently.
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