Monday Morning

The first pale ribbons of silver dawn were creeping over the East River when Elena’s eyes fluttered open.

The master suite was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the climate control and the steady, rhythmic breathing of the man sleeping beside her.

He lay on his stomach, a white linen sheet tangled low around his narrow hips. His broad, muscular back was exposed to the cool morning air, marked with faint pink scratches from her fingernails—a vivid, undeniable testament to the wild, unrestrained passion that had consumed them until four in the morning.

Elena lay frozen, her pulse suddenly leaping into her throat.

*What have I done?*

A wave of icy panic washed over her, instantly chasing away the lingering warmth of the most incredible night of her life.

She was a professional. She was Elena Vance, a woman who had spent four years rebuilding her independence after a disastrous college relationship that had left her heart and finances in ruins. She didn't have one-night stands. She didn't let drop-dead gorgeous, dangerous strangers seduce her into luxury penthouses and dismantle every shred of her self-control.

She rolled onto her side carefully, every muscle in her body aching with a deep, tender soreness that reminded her of how thoroughly, how relentlessly he had claimed her.

She looked at his face in the soft morning light. Even in sleep, his jaw was set with fierce determination, his thick dark eyelashes resting against high cheekbones. He looked like an aristocrat, someone born to wealth, power, and privilege. A man who bought and sold empires for breakfast.

What was going to happen when he woke up? A polite, awkward conversation? An exchange of business cards? An offer to pay for her Uber?

The thought made her stomach curdle with humiliation.

"Better to leave it as it was," she whispered to the empty room. A dream. One magical, forbidden night that existed outside of time and reality.

Holding her breath, Elena slipped out from beneath the sheets. The cool hardwood floor sent shivers up her bare legs. Moving with the stealth of a thief, she gathered her clothes from the floor—her emerald dress, her crumpled lace underwear, her silver heels. She crept into the sprawling Italian marble bathroom, quickly washed her face, pulled on her dress, and zipped it up. Her hair was a wild, voluminous mass of waves that defied any quick fix, so she tied it into a hasty knot at the base of her neck.

She slipped out of the master suite, through the palatial living room, and reached the private elevator foyer. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she pressed the down button.

The doors chimed and opened. Elena stepped inside, turned around, and took one last look at the penthouse. On the glass coffee table, her black filigree mask lay next to his silver one.

"Goodbye, stranger," she whispered as the brass doors slid shut.

***

By 8:45 AM, Elena was sitting at her cubicle on the 32nd floor of Cross Media Tower in Midtown Manhattan.

She had survived a torturous subway ride, swallowed two venti black coffees, and spent twenty minutes in the office restroom scrubbing away the lingering scent of cedarwood and masculine musk from her skin. She had traded her emerald silk gown for a conservative black pencil skirt, an ivory silk blouse buttoned up to her collarbone, and sensible three-inch black pumps. Her hair was smoothed into an immaculate, tight chignon.

Outwardly, she was the consummate corporate professional. Inwardly, her skin still tingled, her thighs felt weak, and her mind was an absolute battlefield of guilt, confusion, and raw, illicit longing.

A sudden thump against her partition made her jump.

Liam poked his head over her desk, his face pasty white and his eyes wide behind his designer glasses. He was clutching a tablet like a shield.

"You're alive!" Liam hissed in a frantic whisper. "Where the hell did you vanish to last night? One minute you were dancing with Prince Charming of the Underworld, and the next minute you were gone! I called you three times!"

"My phone died," Elena lied smoothly, keeping her eyes fixed on her laptop screen. "I... I got a migraine from the champagne and took a cab home early."

"Well, thank God you're in one piece, because the apocalypse has officially arrived," Liam said grimly, sliding into the spare chair beside her desk.

Elena frowned, looking up from her monitor. "What are you talking about? Did the third-quarter budget get slashed?"

"Worse. Much worse. Check your company inbox. The old chairman didn't just step down—he signed over total executive control of the entire conglomerate to his nephew at six o'clock this morning. The takeover is complete."

Elena felt an odd chill settle over her. "The London Reaper?"

"Julian Cross," Liam said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "He just arrived from London forty minutes ago. The executive floor is in total hysterics. Word is, he brought his own security detail, fired the Chief Financial Officer before he even took his coat off, and ordered an immediate, mandatory all-hands assembly for all department heads and senior associates in the 40th-floor auditorium at nine sharp."

Elena glanced at the digital clock on her taskbar: 8:52 AM.

"Why would he want marketing associates at an executive briefing?" Elena asked, grabbing her leather folio and pen.

"Because he's doing a comprehensive departmental audit. If he doesn't like your numbers, you're packing your desk by lunchtime," Liam groaned, standing up. "Come on. If we're late, we might get publicly executed."

Eight minutes later, Elena and Liam filed into the massive, amphitheater-style executive boardroom on the 40th floor. Over two hundred employees were packed into the tiered leather seating, speaking in hushed, nervous murmurs. The air conditioning was cranked down to a freezing chill, and the tension in the room was so thick you could slice it with a letter opener.

At 9:00 AM on the dot, the heavy mahogany double doors at the front of the auditorium swung open.

The entire room went instantly, deathly silent.

A man strode into the room, flanked by two stone-faced corporate attorneys and the terrified Head of Human Resources.

He wore a bespoke charcoal-gray three-piece Savile Row suit that fit his broad, athletic frame with razor-sharp precision. His dark hair was styled back from his forehead, and his sculpted jaw was held high with the cold, absolute authority of a man who owned everything he surveyed.

Elena looked down from the third tier of seating.

And her entire world collapsed into dust.

Her breath seized in her throat. The leather folio slipped from her numb fingers, crashing onto the carpeted floor with a muffled thud that seemed to echo like a gunshot in the silent room.

*No. No, no, no... God, please, no.*

It was him.

The man from the masquerade. The man whose bed she had fled three hours ago. The man whose hands had gripped her waist, whose mouth had worshipped her skin, whose voice had whispered filthy, breathtaking promises into her ear until dawn.

Julian Cross.

As if feeling the tremor of her soul, Julian paused at the podium. He turned his head slowly. His smoke-gray eyes—cold, sharp, and lethal as polished steel—swept up the rows of auditorium seats.

They bypassed the senior directors. They bypassed the vice presidents.

And they landed directly on Elena Vance.

His gaze stopped.

Elena felt all the blood drain from her face, leaving her ice-cold and dizzy. Her heart hammered against her ribs so violently she was certain the people sitting next to her could hear it.

Julian Cross did not look surprised.

A slow, deliberate, devastating smirk curved the corner of his sculpted lips—a look of pure, predatory triumph. He looked like a wolf who had just tracked his runaway prey to the exact corner where she thought she was safe.

He adjusted the lapels of his suit, leaned down toward the microphone, and spoke. His deep, resonant baritone filled every corner of the room—that exact same gravelly voice that had made her cry out in ecstasy hours earlier.

"Good morning, everyone," Julian said smoothly, his eyes never leaving Elena's pale face. "I am Julian Cross. And starting today, things are going to change around here."

A pause, heavy and pregnant with unspeakable meaning.

"Especially for those who think they can run from me."