His Ruthless Possession

2:17 AM | Blackthorn Tower Executive Floor

Kieran's fist connected with the bulletproof glass wall, the impact reverberating through his private observatory. Fifty-seven stories below, Manhattan glittered like a spilled jewel box.

"Verified." His PA's voice crackled through the encrypted intercom. "Facial recognition confirms Miss Summers entered the Orton's presidential suite at 21:32 with O'Malley."

The surveillance photos slid across the holographic desk display - Liora's laugh frozen mid-frame as Ethan nuzzled her neck in a private elevator. Kieran zoomed in on the timestamp. 21:47:03. The exact moment his customized Patek Philippe had chimed an alert for Phoebe's bridal gown fitting.

"Twenty-three years." Ice cubes clinked violently in his Macallan M glass. "She brought live frogs to my Princeton interview. Set fire to the Hamptons estate during Phoebe's birthday." His thumb lingered on an infrared image showing Liora's legs wrapped around Ethan's hips. "Now this... spectacle."

Liam maintained his six-foot safety perimeter. The shattered Baccarat decanter shards near the wet bar told him more than the CEO's controlled tone. Everyone in the C-suite knew about the Cambridge hacking incident - how their ice-cold patriarch had dismantled an entire tech startup for leaking Liora's motorcycle accident photos.

6:09 AM | Orton Hotel Penthouse

Liora awoke to citrus and sandalwood - Ethan's signature cologne clinging to the pillowcase. She blinked at the monogrammed cufflink digging into her hipbone. Memory returned in brutal flashes: tequila shots at the climate gala, Ethan's hands steadying her against the Tesla's gull-wing door, the hotel room's biometric lock beeping approval for her fingerprint.

"Sleeping Beauty arises." Ethan's British drawl came from the rainfall shower. Steam curled around his towel-clad hips as he emerged, water droplets tracing the Celtic knot tattoo across his pectoral. "Though I'd argue 'Beauty' nearly neutered me last night."

Her gasp echoed off Carrara marble walls. "We didn't-"

"Darling, you tried to ride me like a showjumper." He tossed her a crumpled Givenchy blouse. "Until you mistook the minibar for Satan's outpost and started exorcising it with a corkscrew."

Liora's cheeks burned hotter than the Malibu cliffside fire she'd accidentally started last Fourth of July. The vulnerability in Ethan's gaze stopped her retreat - that fleeting softness he reserved for wounded thoroughbreds at his Berkshire stables.

"Relax, Valkyrie." His thumb brushed the scar on her wrist from their ill-fated Yosemite climb. "Your virtue's safe." A wicked grin. "From me, at least."