Chapter 3: You Have a Beautiful Figure

Summer's POV

Fire. My whole body was on fire, and I couldn't make it stop. Through the haze of whatever they'd slipped into my drink, I was vaguely aware of being carried—strong arms cradling me, the steady rhythm of footsteps.

"So hot," I whimpered, pressing my face against the cool fabric of his suit. My skin felt like it was trying to crawl off my body. Everything hurt. Everything burned. "Please... make it stop."

The arms around me tightened, his grip flexing against my trembling body, but he didn’t say a word. Even through the drug’s grip, I could feel the coiled tension in him—his chest hard against my side, his breath steady. My hands clawed weakly at his jacket, fingers fumbling for anything to anchor me as the heat pulsed lower, pooling wet and insistent between my thighs.

We were moving again—door opening, shoes clicking on hardwood—then the world lurched as he shifted me in his arms. I heard water running, a distant roar, and then—oh fuck—ice-cold water slammed into my overheated skin. I gasped, my body jerking violently, tits straining against the soaked fabric of my dress as I tried to scramble away from the shock. But his hands—big, unyielding—pinned me down, one gripping my waist, the other clamping my shoulder, forcing me back into the tub.

"Stay still!" His deep voice brooked no argument.

I shook my head frantically, my body fighting against both the drug's heat and the water's chill. "Cold... too cold..." My nipples hardened painfully under the drenched fabric, poking out like they were begging for attention, and I couldn’t tell if it was the ice or the way his fingers dug into me that made me squirm.

I heard him speaking into what must have been a bluetooth earpiece, his voice sharp and commanding. "James. I need ice. Every piece you can find. Bring it to my suite. Now."

There was a pause as he listened to the response. "Immediately, James."

The water kept rising, lapping at my hips, my shivering uncontrollable. I knew this had to be saving me—had to be—but my body didn’t give a shit about reason. It craved escape, craved him. His hand slid from my shoulder to my forehead, checking my temperature, and the touch was like a live wire—electric, jolting through me. I arched hard against him, a needy moan slipping out as my chest pressed into his arm, my wetness soaking through my panties and mingling with the water.

"Please," I begged.

He didn't reply, but one of his hands moved to my forehead, checking my temperature. The touch sent an electric shock through my system, and I arched involuntarily, seeking more contact with his cooler skin.

Minutes that felt like hours passed before I heard a quick, efficient knock at the door. Mr. Stark's hands never left me as he called out, "Enter."

"The ice, sir," James's voice was professionally crisp.

"Leave it there. Go."

The door shut, and I heard the clatter of ice hitting the tub, the water turning arctic as he dumped it in. I yelped, trying to claw my way out, my nails scraping his forearm, but he caught me effortlessly. One arm hooked under my tits, pressing them up as he yanked me back, the other hand sliding down to grip my thigh, fingers dangerously close to where I was dripping wet and aching.

"Hold on," he murmured, his voice carrying an odd note of gentleness that seemed at odds with his forceful grip. "It'll be over soon."

I didn’t know how long it lasted—me thrashing against him, half-sobbing, half-moaning as the ice bit into my skin and the drug pulsed in my cunt. His chest pressed against my back now, his breath hot on my neck as he held me down, and I could feel the hard line of his cock through his pants, brushing my ass every time I moved. At some point, tears mixed with the water, my body a trembling mess of fire and frost, and I didn’t care—I just wanted him to touch me, to make it stop or make it worse, anything.

Eventually, the burning began to fade, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion. My struggles weakened, then stopped entirely. The last thing I remember was his voice, low and reassuring: "Sleep now. You're safe."

---

I woke to sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the worst headache of my life. For a moment, I just lay there, trying to piece together where I was. The bed was definitely not mine – the sheets felt like they cost more than my monthly rent. The room itself was equally luxurious, all cream and gold with tasteful modern art on the walls.

The Manhattan Club. The drugged drink. The mysterious Mr. Stark. The memories came flooding back, bringing with them a wave of anxiety. I sat up carefully, fighting back a wave of dizziness.

My whole body felt like I'd gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champion.

Looking down, I realized I was completely naked. My heart rate spiked as I quickly pulled the silky sheets up to cover myself. I did a careful self-assessment. No soreness, no marks, nothing to suggest... I took a deep breath. Okay. Okay. Let's think this through.

"Good morning, Miss Taylor."

The voice from the doorway made me jump. Mr. Stark stood there, impeccable in what had to be a Tom Ford suit, his dark eyes studying me with an intensity that made my skin prickle. In the harsh morning light, he looked even more striking than I remembered – all sharp angles and controlled power.

I clutched the sheets tighter to my chest, feeling my face flame with embarrassment. His eyes traveled over me with deliberate slowness before returning to my face.

"You have a beautiful figure," he remarked casually, as if commenting on the weather. "Though I imagine you'd prefer some clothes now."

"I... yes," I managed, mortification making my voice crack.

He moved into the room with fluid grace, picking up a glass of water from the bedside table and holding it out to me. The gesture was surprisingly considerate, though his expression remained unreadable.

"Thank you," I said after taking a careful sip. My eyes caught on his hands as he withdrew them – long-fingered and elegant, but with a strength I remembered all too well from last night. Those hands had kept me from drowning myself in a drug-induced haze.

"About... about my clothes..." I started awkwardly, desperately hoping there was an innocent explanation.

One corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Miss Taylor, don't worry. Nothing happened last night. Your clothes were soaked through from the ice bath – a necessary precaution against the drugs in your system. The maid removed them after you fell asleep."

I nodded, relief washing through me. Then something clicked. "How do you know my name?"

The slight smile disappeared, replaced by something more calculating. "You really should seen the headlines, Miss Taylor. The jilted fiancée who cursed her sister's engagement to Alexander Stark. Quite dramatic."

All the blood drained from my face. My hands started to shake, and I clutched at the silk sheets to hide it. Of course. Of course the story had spread. In the cutthroat world of Wall Street, this kind of scandal was better than currency.

"About those rumors going around about you, Miss Taylor," he continued, his dark eyes never leaving my face, "there are quite a few versions floating around. Which one would you like me to fill you in on?"

A chill ran down my spine at his tone. This wasn't just idle curiosity. This was... something else. Something with purpose behind it.

"Who are you anyway?" I asked, my voice steadier than I felt. "And what do you really want from me?"