Page 39 of Twisted Proposal

When I woke up, I was cold and very alone.

My eyes welled with tears as I remembered the events of the night before. The humiliation of him picking me up, the cold shower, the hot spanking. Riding his thigh like some wanton slut, topped off by the rejection that left me shivering in the silk sheets, chilling me far more than my wet hair.

I couldn't stay here any longer.

Everywhere I looked was dark luxury and power. It looked like him. It smelled like him. Even the air felt weighted with his presence, though he was nowhere to be seen.

Placed carefully on the nightstand next to me was a vintage amber glass bottle with a cork stopper and a little sign that readdrink me.

Every single D.A.R.E after-school special taught me I should not be drinking liquids from strange bottles when I didn't know what they were or where they came from.

But this wasn't some random party. This was Artem's domain, and I already knew refusing his offerings came with consequences.

Ignoring the bottle, I sat up and was instantly hit with an intense wave of nausea and a sharp stab of pain through my temples.

Fuck it.

Either whatever was in the bottle would make this go away or it'd kill me, in which case the pain would stop.

Win-win.

I grabbed the bottle, pulled the cork out with my teeth and then tipped it back into my mouth, letting the acidic liquid drain straight down my throat.

It tasted like honey, herbs, and something that burned. Probably the hair of the rabid bitch who bit me.

Whatever it was, it worked.

My stomach settled, and the pain dulled enough that I could move around the suite.

There was no sign of Artem anywhere, but there was a large white paper shopping bag with "Nordstrom" printed in bold black letters left on the coffee table with a note.

– Mr. Ivanov,

I wasn't sure what style your companion preferred, so I bought a few. Whatever she does not want, please leave in the room and I will have it returned and the funds credited to your card.

– Mr. Kotts, the night manager.

I assumed I was the only companion he had last night. The thought of him leaving this room to go to a different room with another woman made the liquid I just swallowed sour in my gut.

It shouldn't have bothered me, but my skin crawled with something I refused to name as jealousy at the idea of him doing to someone else what he'd done to me.

Inside the bag were a few different pairs of pants and tops from St. John Collection, Lafayette 148 New York, and Akris Punto.

All in neutral shades.

There were even underwear and bras in the right sizes in impossibly soft lace and the smoothest silk I had ever felt.

My fingers trembled as I touched them. How did he know my sizes? Had he been watching me that closely?

The thought sent a shiver over my limbs—not entirely unpleasant, which terrified me more than the idea of being watched.

The note said I was supposed to take what I wanted and leave what I didn't, so Artem could be refunded.

After last night, I deserved it all, so I was taking it all.

He could afford it.

I called down to room service and ordered breakfast, including champagne and caviar.