Wrong Room, Right Billionaire: Ultimate Revenge

The rain finally ceased just before dawn, leaving the Manhattan skyline bathed in a muted slate-gray haze.

Inside the imperial suite, the expansive California king bed was a disaster of tangled Egyptian cotton sheets. The faint scent of crushed cedar and spent heat still lingered heavily in the quiet air.

Gidget opened her eyes against a wave of dull, agonizing aches that radiated through every bone in her body. Her thick eyelashes were still clumped with dried tears.

As her vision focused, her heart seized in her chest.

A heavy, heavily muscled arm was slung possessively across her bare waist, anchoring her firmly against a broad, scorching-hot chest.

The man beside her was fast asleep. His breathing was deep, slow, and completely even. In the soft morning light, his razor-sharp jawline and aristocratic features lacked the terrifying savagery of the night before.

Fragments of the night flooded Gidget's mind—the darkness, the overwhelming weight of his body, her desperate pleas, and the sharp, tearing pain of her stolen innocence.

Tears pricked her eyes, but she bit her lower lip so hard she tasted iron, refusing to let out a single sound.

She carefully reached down with trembling fingers, taking hold of the heavy wrist draped over her stomach, and eased it off millimeter by millimeter.

Ezequiel's dark brows knit together in his sleep, his jaw tightening slightly as if displeased by the loss of warmth, but he did not wake.

Gidget held her breath until she was certain he was still under. She rolled off the other side of the mattress, her bare feet sinking into the plush Persian rug.

Her knees buckled the moment her weight hit the floor. She had to grip the edge of the mahogany nightstand to keep from collapsing.

On the nightstand lay a platinum Patek Philippe watch beside a pair of black-and-gold cufflinks engraved with the intricate Finch family crest.

She had no idea who this man was, and she didn't care to know. The only thing consuming her mind was raw, suffocating shame and the desperate need to run.

She looked down at her ruined evening gown lying shredded on the carpet. It was completely unwearable.

Spotting the walk-in closet door slightly ajar, Gidget slipped inside, grabbed a long, charcoal-black cashmere overcoat from the rack, and wrapped it tightly around her shivering frame.

The coat smelled distinctly of him—cold woods and expensive tobacco. It made her skin burn with humiliation.

Taking one final, terrified look at the sleeping silhouette on the bed, Gidget pulled open the heavy suite door and slipped into the empty hallway.

She rushed into the waiting elevator and pressed the lobby button.

The mirrored walls of the elevator cab reflected her ghost-pale face. Her neck and collarbones were marked with dark, bruising red hollows.

She pulled the coat's lapels higher, tears finally escaping down her cheeks. "Forget it... Conway is still waiting for you. You have to stay alive for Conway."

When the doors opened, she kept her head down, breezing past the concierge and disappearing into the crisp morning air of Fifth Avenue.

Ten minutes later, the massive bed on the top floor went cold.

Ezequiel's eyes snapped open.

The icy blue-gray irises instantly filled with lethal, turbulent fury when his hand reached out and touched nothing but empty, cold linen.

For the first time in twenty-eight years, Ezequiel Finch was sleeping without high-dose sedatives.

He pushed himself up, his gaze dropping to the center of the white sheet.

A stark, bright smear of crimson stained the fabric.

He lifted his left forearm. The pale skin was completely clear—no hives, no swelling, no trace of the neurogenic allergy that had crippled him since childhood.

For the first time in his life, a woman had touched him for an entire night, and he had slept uninterrupted for six full hours.

She was not some cheap escort sent by Jamey. That crying, fierce girl who had begged for mercy in the dark was his only biological cure.

Ezequiel grabbed the bedside landline and punched a single key.

"Owen." Ezequiel's voice was low, icy, and lethal. "Lock down all hotel surveillance. Call security."

On the other end of the line, his chief personal assistant, Owen Foster, stiffened. "Mr. Finch? What happened?"

Ezequiel swung his long legs out of bed, throwing on a dark silk robe, and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.

"The woman who just left my penthouse," Ezequiel said, his thumb aggressively rubbing his signet ring. "Tear New York apart if you have to. Bring her back to me."

"Understood, sir!"

As Ezequiel ended the call, a tiny glint of silver on the carpet near the nightstand caught his eye.

He bent down and picked up the small object.

It was a cheap, generic silver hair clip. Engraved near the hinge was a tiny, faint initial: G.

Ezequiel closed his fist around the metal, letting the sharp edge press deep into his palm. A cold, possessive smirk slowly curved his lips.