Sophia Chen's POV
The boardroom felt like a funeral.
My hands shook as I stared at the papers spread across the mahogany table—papers that would erase everything my father built. Everything he promised would be mine.
"Sign here, Sophia." Eleanor, my stepmother, pushed the documents closer. Her red nails looked like claws against the white paper. "The company is drowning in debt. This merger is the only way to save your father's legacy."
Legacy. The word tasted like poison in my mouth.
My father died six months ago, and now Eleanor was selling Chen Technologies piece by piece. The company he built from nothing. The company he trained me to run since I was sixteen.
"Father's will said I should lead the company," I said, hating how small my voice sounded. "He wanted me—"
"Your father was sentimental." Eleanor's smile didn't reach her eyes. "You're twenty-two, Sophia. You just graduated. You're not ready to run a billion-dollar company."
But I am ready. I wanted to scream it. I had a degree from Stanford. An MBA. I'd worked in every department, learned every system. Father made sure I could handle this.
But Eleanor controlled the board now. And they listened to her, not me.
I flew back from the Paris tech conference this morning, exhausted and heartbroken. Ten hours on a plane, thinking about how to save my father's company. Our company.
Now I knew the truth. There was nothing to save. Eleanor had already decided.
"Think about it overnight," Eleanor said, standing up. "But we need your signature by Monday. The buyers are waiting."
I stumbled out of the boardroom, my chest tight. The hallway stretched endlessly in front of me. Father's portrait hung on the wall—young, smiling, proud. He looked like he believed in me.
I failed you, Father. I failed.
"Sophia!"
I turned. Victoria, my step-sister, rushed toward me. Her face was full of concern, her arms opening for a hug.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered, pulling me close. "I know how hard this is. Mom is being horrible."
Victoria was two years younger than me, but we'd never been close. Not really. Father always favored me, and I knew it hurt her. But right now, her kindness felt like the only warm thing in this cold building.
"I don't know what to do," I admitted, tears burning my eyes. "Everything Father worked for—"
"Come home with me," Victoria said quickly. "You look exhausted. We'll have some wine, talk it through. Maybe there's something we missed."
I wanted to say no. I wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and pretend this day never happened.
But Victoria's smile was so genuine. So sisterly.
"Okay," I whispered.
Victoria's apartment was beautiful—all glass and steel, overlooking the city. Nothing like the warm, cluttered home we grew up in.
"Sit down." She guided me to the couch. "I'll get us something to drink. You need to relax."
I sank into the soft cushions, closing my eyes. My body felt heavy, like I'd been carrying stones. The Paris conference, the flight, the boardroom nightmare—it was all too much.
"Here." Victoria pressed a glass into my hand. "It's Mom's special recipe. Champagne with a little something extra to help you sleep."
The drink was pink and fizzy, with a sweet smell that made my mouth water. I took a sip. Then another. It tasted like strawberries and relief.
"Better?" Victoria asked, sitting beside me.
"Yeah." The word came out fuzzy. "Thanks for this. I thought you hated me."
"Hated you?" Victoria laughed, but something in her voice sounded wrong. Sharp. "Why would I hate you? Just because Father loved you more? Because he gave you everything while I got nothing?"
I blinked, trying to focus on her face. But the room was spinning now, tilting sideways like a ship in a storm.
"Victoria?" My tongue felt thick. "What did you—"
"Drink up, sister." Her smile turned cold. "You're going on a little trip."
I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn't work. The glass slipped from my fingers, crashing on the floor. Red liquid spread across the white carpet like blood.
"No," I whispered. "Please—"
But darkness swallowed me whole.
I woke up to sunlight burning my eyes.
My head pounded like someone was hitting it with a hammer. My mouth tasted like cotton and metal. And I was naked.
Naked.
Panic shot through me like electricity. I sat up fast—too fast—and the room spun. Expensive sheets tangled around my legs. Silk pillows scattered everywhere. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed a city view I didn't recognize.
Where am I? What happened?
I looked down at my body. Bruises marked my skin—small, purple fingerprints on my hips. My hair was a mess. And beside me in the huge bed—
A man.
My heart stopped.
He was the most handsome man I'd ever seen. Strong jaw. Dark hair. Muscular shoulders visible above the sheets. He looked like he belonged on magazine covers, not in bed with me.
Oh God. Oh God. What did I do?
My memories were fragments, pieces of broken glass. Victoria's apartment. The pink drink. Spinning, spinning, spinning. And then... nothing. Just darkness and confusion.
Did I... did we...?
The man's eyes opened. They were gray—cold and sharp like steel. He looked at me without expression, like I was a problem he needed to solve.
"You're awake." His voice was deep and bored. "Good."
He sat up, completely comfortable being shirtless in front of a stranger. Completely comfortable with whatever happened last night.
But I wasn't comfortable. I was drowning.
"I don't—" My voice cracked. "I don't understand. What happened? How did I get here?"
He stood up, pulling on pants like this was a normal morning. Like waking up with strange women was something he did every day.
"You got what you wanted," he said coldly. "Now leave quietly, and I'll compensate you for your time."
Compensate me?
The words hit like a slap.
"What are you talking about?" I grabbed the sheet, holding it against my chest. "I don't even know who you are!"
He turned to look at me, and something flickered in his eyes. Surprise? Doubt? But it disappeared fast, replaced by ice.
"Don't play games." He walked to a desk, pulled out a checkbook. "How much do you want?"
He thinks I'm a prostitute.
Horror and humiliation crashed over me like a wave. I stumbled out of bed, dragging the sheet with me, searching for my clothes. My dress was on the floor, torn and wrinkled. My shoes were by the door.
"I need to leave." My hands shook so badly I could barely hold my clothes. "I need to go right now."
"At least tell me your name," he said. But he didn't sound like he cared. He sounded like he was checking off a box on a list.
I ran.
I ran out of that beautiful apartment in my torn dress and bare feet, tears streaming down my face. I didn't stop until I was three blocks away, collapsed against a building, sobbing into my hands.
What happened to me? What did Victoria do?
And then I saw it—a reflection in a store window across the street.
A poster. A magazine cover. A face I recognized from a thousand business articles.
The man from the bed.
Dominic Ashford.
The most powerful CEO in the city. The billionaire everyone talked about. The man who destroyed companies and crushed competitors without mercy.
And I just spent the night in his bed.
My phone buzzed in my purse—the only thing I managed to grab. A text message from an unknown number.
Just a photo.
Me and Dominic Ashford. In his bed. Asleep. Naked.
And below it, three words that made my blood turn to ice:
"Welcome home, sister."