Chapter 4

Orion

The persistent buzzing of my phone dragged me from the depths of unconsciousness like fingernails on glass. Sunlight stabbed through the hotel curtains, sending ice picks straight through my skull. My mouth tasted like I'd been gargling with gasoline, and every muscle in my body felt like I'd been hit by a freight train.

Fuck. How much had I drunk last night?

I fumbled for the phone without opening my eyes, my voice coming out as a rough growl. "What."

"Orion, you changed your hotel room again, didn't you?" Grandfather's voice carried that familiar tone of exasperation mixed with concern. "I checked with the hotel. You're not in the presidential suite I booked for you. Really, you're getting more paranoid and stubborn by the day."

I sat up slowly, my head spinning like a carnival ride. "So?"

"So you're impossible!" The old man's frustration crackled through the phone. "I arranged for someone very special to meet you last night, and because of your paranoid room-switching, she probably couldn't find you. All that careful planning, wasted."

Something in his tone made me more alert. "Who?"

"Your wife."

The words hit me like ice water. I was fully awake now, rage cutting through the hangover like a blade. "My what? The wife you arranged behind my back six years ago when I was too sick to stop you? The one I've never met because you decided I needed some stranger's 'spiritual protection'?"

"Orion, please, let me explain—"

"No." My voice turned deadly quiet. "I've told you before, old man. I'm getting divorced. I don't care what superstitious nonsense convinced you to tie me to some random woman. It ends now."

"It wasn't superstition!" Grandfather's voice rose, defensive and clearly guilty. "The astrologer I consulted, the life force specialist—they all said the same thing. You were dying, Orion. The poison in your system was consuming your life energy. You needed someone with a compatible life force, someone whose vitality could be channeled to you through the sacred bond of marriage. And it worked! You recovered!"

I laughed harshly. "You actually believe that mystical bullshit? I recovered because of modern medicine and sheer willpower, not because you legally bound me to some stranger."

"Her numerological chart was perfect, her star alignment exactly what you needed—"

"I don't want to hear it." I was standing now, pacing the room despite my hangover. "I'm hanging up, and the next time we speak, I want divorce papers ready to sign."

"Orion, wait—"

I ended the call and threw the phone onto the bed, fury coursing through my veins. Six years. Six fucking years of being legally married to someone I'd never met, all because Grandfather believed in fortune tellers and life force nonsense.

At least I'd accomplished what I'd set out to do by changing rooms. No desperate actresses had tracked me down, throwing themselves at my door with their rehearsed sob stories and calculated seduction attempts. And I'd successfully avoided what would have undoubtedly been an awkward, painful reunion with whatever gold-digging social climber Grandfather had bought for me six years ago. She was probably some entitled princess who'd expected to walk into the presidential suite and find herself a dying millionaire to manipulate.

Perfect. Two birds, one stone.

But as my anger began to settle, other sensations crept in. The room felt wrong.

I looked around more carefully this time. My clothes weren't just scattered—they were torn. My shirt was inside out, my belt nowhere to be found. The sheets were a disaster, and there was a scent in the air that definitely wasn't mine. Something floral and expensive, mixed with the unmistakable musk of sex.

My blood went cold as the implications hit me.

If I'd successfully avoided my wife by changing rooms, and if no actresses had found me here, then who the hell had been in my room last night?

My body felt... used. Exhausted in a way that went beyond alcohol. There was a soreness in muscles I hadn't consciously exercised, a bone-deep fatigue that was worse than any sexual encounter I'd ever had. Even my groin ached in a way that suggested I'd been put through some kind of marathon.

Christ, just how long had whoever it was been using me? And more importantly, what the hell had they put me through while I was unconscious? I felt like I'd been ridden hard and put away wet, which was both disturbing and oddly impressive given that I couldn't remember a damn thing about it.

The thought that someone had taken such thorough advantage of my unconscious state was equal parts horrifying and bizarrely flattering to my stamina.

I stumbled toward the bathroom, catching my reflection in the mirror. My hair was a disaster, my skin was flushed, and there were marks on my neck that definitely hadn't been there yesterday. Scratch marks down my back that stung when I moved.

What the fuck had I done?

That's when I saw it. A glint of something on the nightstand that definitely didn't belong to me.

A ring. White gold with an emerald center, surrounded by diamonds in an intricate Art Deco pattern. The kind of piece that cost more than most people's cars. The craftsmanship was exquisite—whoever had designed this knew exactly what they were doing.

Beside it lay a folded piece of hotel stationary.

I picked up the note with hands that were steadier than I felt, unfolding it to reveal neat, precise handwriting:

I sincerely apologize for last night's confusion. This is compensation for any... inconvenience.

Compensation.

The word hit me like a physical blow. I read the note again, then a third time, each reading making the implications clearer and more insulting.

Someone had been in my room. Someone had... what? Fucked me while I was unconscious? And then left payment like I was some kind of high-end prostitute?

My hands began to shake—not with weakness, but with a rage so pure it made my vision blur at the edges.

The ring felt heavier than it should have in my palm. Expensive. Tasteful. The kind of thing worn by someone with money, class, education. Someone who could afford to treat a night with Orion Blackwell like a business transaction.

Compensation for any inconvenience.

Like I was a fucking service provider.

I'd been poisoned, shot at, hunted across three continents, and had my identity stolen by a family that wanted me dead. I'd survived assassination attempts and corporate espionage. I'd clawed my way back from the brink of death itself.

And now some entitled bitch thought she could drug me, use my body, and leave payment like I was a goddamn escort.

I reached for my phone, dialing a number I knew by heart.

"Marcus," I said when my assistant picked up on the first ring. "I need you to find someone."