Vivienne Hartwell had never, not even in her wildest thoughts, imagined that on the night before her wedding, the man she was about to marry would send her into another man’s bed.
After getting a text from Maxwell Lorne, she had taken a cab straight to the Poly Hotel.
Maxwell was the first man who never looked down on her for having three children, the first one who treated her with real patience and care.
She had gone there full of joy, ready to give herself to him.
One night of passion.
Vivienne slowly opened her sleepy eyes, still sinking into the sweetness of last night, her whole body wrapped in that lingering warmth.
Then movement came from the bathroom door.
A soft, drowsy "Maxwell" had barely left her lips when a man walked out.
He had nothing on but a towel around his waist.
His damp, messy hair was still dripping.
Water traced down the sharp line of his side profile and slid over his firm chest.
As he moved, his long, toned legs flashed into view, tight with clean, powerful muscle.
The second Vivienne saw his face clearly, she yanked the blanket over herself, stunned out of her mind.
"How is it you?"
She recognized that cold, devastatingly handsome face at once.
She had seen him before.
Two days ago, when she passed a construction site and got harassed by a drunk, he was the one who stepped in and helped her.
She had thought that would be the end of it, that their lives would never cross again.
But now? What kind of insane situation was this?
"And who did you think it would be?"
Damien Whitmore’s dark eyes, deep as ink, swept over her panicked little face. His voice was low, calm, and ridiculously magnetic.
"You... why are you here? Last night, you and I..."
Vivienne Hartwell was so flustered she could barely get a full sentence out.
That boneless, weak ache in her body kept dragging her back to one brutal fact—what had happened last night was real.
"This is my room," Damien Whitmore said as he walked over and sat on the sofa, casually tossing aside the towel he’d just used on his damp hair. "So why do you think I’m here?"
His room?
Vivienne’s face turned stark white. "No way! This was obviously the room my fiancé, Maxwell Lorne, booked!"
"You sure?" Damien lifted a brow, his gaze drifting over her pale, smooth skin like cold fire, his eyes darkening a little.
Vivienne’s mind was a total mess.
The second she noticed his eyes stop at her chest, she panicked and yanked the blanket higher around herself.
"Pervert! Get out right now, or I’ll sue you for rape!"
"Sue me?" Damien looked at her with maddening calm, completely unbothered.
He said lazily, "Want me to remind you who made the first move last night?"
Vivienne choked on her own words.
Last night, she’d deliberately had a little alcohol to hype herself up, wanting to spend a sweet, romantic night with Maxwell Lorne.
When she knocked and entered the hotel room, the inside had been dim, almost pitch-dark.
She’d thought it was Maxwell Lorne, so riding that buzz, she’d gone straight over, wrapped her arms around the man, and kissed him first.
She really had been the one who started it.
But...
“You could’ve said no, you know!”
Damien Whitmore reached for the clothes beside him. Seeing her face flushed with anger, he spoke in that lazy, maddening tone of his.
“I saved you. You giving yourself to me as thanks sounded pretty reasonable. I thought you came to repay me.”
She did not. That was not what happened.
Vivienne Hartwell was mortified and furious all at once, her thoughts tangled into a total mess. Right now, she only wanted one thing—get out of this room first, talk later, freak out later.
She scrambled to gather the clothes scattered all over the floor and threw them on in a rush, then strode straight for the door.
“You’re leaving just like that?”
The man’s voice came from behind her.