His Ruthless Possession

Liora's caffeine-deprived brain short-circuited when Ethan's morning voice rumbled against her spine. "Rise and shine, trouble."

"Sweet baby James." She crossed herself instinctively, scrambling backward until the Tempur-Pedic mattress edge threatened mutiny. The Cartier panther cufflinks winking from Ethan's sleeve confirmed this wasn't some tequila-fueled hallucination.

His smirk widened at her panicked sign of the cross. "Relax, Sinclair. You only tried to convert me to Pastafarianism last night."

Memories flooded back in 4K clarity—Kieran's icy dismissal at MoMA gala, three too many Old Fashioneds, then Ethan materializing like some Armani-clad guardian demon at Velvet Underground.

"Christ on a cracker," she groaned into Frette linens. "Tell me I didn't—"

"—challenge the Marines at table seven to arm-wrestling? Oh but you did." Ethan's cufflink caught sunlight as he poured Kenyan AA coffee. "Though watching you pin a Navy SEAL almost justified replacing my Savile Row shirt with..." He plucked at his Nirvana Nevermind tee.

Liora's mortified squeak startled the penthouse's automated drapes into whirring open. Morning light exposed the evidence—Ethan's Rolex glowing 6:17am, her stolen Harvard hoodie hanging askew, and...

"Is that a bite mark on your—"

"Compensation negotiations begin at seven." He tossed a McCafe bag onto the bed. "Egg white wrap or full contrition?"