Wrong Room, Right Billionaire: Ultimate Revenge

The freezing autumn rain swept across Fifth Avenue, soaking through Gidget's thin silk gown within seconds.

Her phone buzzed violently inside her clutch. Her stepmother's frantic calls. Colin's venomous texts threatening to pull Conway's life support.

Gidget ignored them all. Her vision swam with dark spots as low blood sugar gripped her limbs. Conway, nineteen, pale and fragile in the ICU. She needed shelter. She needed to think.

She stumbled through the revolving brass doors of the Four Seasons Hotel Manhattan.

The doorman cast a suspicious look at her drenched, clinging dress. Gidget lowered her head and slipped into the private elevator bank behind the grand lounge.

Her trembling fingers reached for the lobby button, but a sudden wave of dizziness hit her. Her palm struck the gold keycard pad, triggering the override for the top-floor presidential suite.

The elevator surged upward in silence.

Eighty stories above Manhattan, the imperial penthouse was pitch black.

A tall, broad-shouldered man sat motionless in the shadows of the velvet sofa, damp black hair clinging to his temples. A vein pulsed along his rigid jaw. On his left wrist, a worn pink scrunchie stood out against pale skin.

Thirty minutes ago, his friend Jamey Black had slipped a potent stimulant into his whiskey, laughing about testing whether the cold-blooded Wall Street tyrant was truly immune to female touch.

The heat tore through Ezequiel Finch's veins like liquid fire. For twenty-eight years, he had suffered from severe neurogenic hypersensitivity—any skin-to-skin contact with a woman triggered allergic urticaria, throat constriction, anaphylactic shock. Combined with two decades of chronic insomnia, his nervous system was on the edge of collapse.

He slammed his crystal tumbler against the wall. Glass shattered, scotch splashing across the wallpaper.

"Jamey..." he rasped. "You're a dead man."

A soft chime echoed as the private elevator doors slid open.

Gidget staggered out into the dim corridor. The suite's double doors were slightly ajar. Thinking it was an open guest lounge, she pushed inside.

"Hello?" Her voice was hoarse. "Is anyone in here?"

The scent of Cuban tobacco and cedarwood filled her senses.

Her voice was a spark in a pool of gasoline.

Heavy leather soles struck the floor. A towering presence moved through the darkness with terrifying speed.

Gidget's instincts screamed to retreat, but her soaked heels slipped. She gasped, tipping forward.

A scalding hand shot out and locked around her wrist like an iron shackle.

She cried out as a massive force dragged her inside, slamming the door shut behind her.

Before she could scream, she was spun around and pinned against the cold marble wall.

A towering shadow loomed over her, blocking out the faint neon glow of the skyline. His ragged breath was scorching against her collarbone.

Ezequiel waited for the familiar burn—the hives, the itching, the throat-closing terror that had haunted him his entire life.

None of it came.

No allergic reaction. No hives where his fingers dug into her wrist.

Instead, a delicate, rain-washed scent drifted from the trembling girl in his arms. The moment it reached his senses, the blinding headache that had tormented him for twenty years vanished.

His blue-gray eyes dilated.

"Who sent you?" His voice was a deep, gravelly rasp. His fingers slid up her forearm, his rough thumb pressing hard against the hollow of her jaw, forcing her face up.

"Let me go..." Gidget sobbed, pushing against the rock-hard wall of his chest. "Please... I walked into the wrong room..."

Her freezing fingertips brushed the bare skin at his open collar.

That slight touch shattered the last thread of his sanity.

He stared down at her pale, tear-streaked face, illuminated by a flash of lightning. A possessive, feral smirk curved his cold lips.

"Wrong room?" he whispered. "You walked into my cage, sweetheart. You're not walking back out."

Before Gidget could scream, his mouth crashed down on hers.