The Billionaires lady

Quinn POV:

When I woke up, I was lying in a massive, unfamiliar bed.

My temples throbbed with a dull, nauseating ache, my vision swimming as I stared at the geometric coffered ceiling above me. Last night had been the flagship collection's celebration banquet, and I had carelessly let myself drink two glasses of vintage champagne too many.

And then...

My fingers dug into the silk sheets, a sudden, scorching wave of heat rushing through my veins as memory snapped violently into focus.

That deep, guttural groan of a man, rough and heavy with an intoxicating, territorial fever, was still echoing against the shell of my ear like an unholy spell. The phantom friction of burning skin, the breathless pants muffled against the crook of my neck, the ruthless, iron clamp of his large hands pinning my hips to the mattress—it all rushed back in a dizzying, suffocating wave. My face ignited crimson, and the dormant, sensitive gland at the nape of my neck gave an involuntary, feverish throb.

Even now, the cold morning air in the suite was saturated with the lingering aftermath of an unsuppressed S-class Alpha rut—dense, freezing Siberian cedar tangled with bitter frost and the faintest, sweet exhaustion of my own crushed freesia.

I cut off my spiraling thoughts immediately. I needed to get out of this dangerous territory before whoever owned this room returned.

Reaching down over the edge of the mattress, I picked up the white silk shirt lying crumpled on the hardwood floor. The delicate fabric had been completely shredded down the front seam, the pearl buttons ripped clean away by fingers that had lost all civilized restraint under the influence of primal hormones.

Could this even be worn outside?

My trembling hand tossed the ruined silk aside.

Right by the foot of the bed sat a clean garment bag. It had obviously been left behind by him—a sharp, structured charcoal skirt suit with a high standing collar. I slipped into it in a hurry. It was definitely not my usual style, most likely bought off the rack from an emergency luxury courier just to handle the morning aftermath.

Heading into the adjoining marble bathroom, I caught sight of myself in the vanity mirror and froze.

I turned my head, inspecting the pale, sensitive curve of my nape. Right over my scent gland, the skin was raw and swollen, carrying the distinct, crimson puncture of an Alpha's canines—a textbook temporary mark. It wasn't the deep, permanent mating bond that would tether my soul to his forever, but the chemical claim was unmistakable, flooding my bloodstream with the heavy, possessive warmth of his cedar.

And beneath my collarbones?

Absolute, unmitigated chaos. Feverish crimson marks, dark bruised bites, and lingering friction burns trailed across the porcelain slope of my chest all the way down to my ribs.

Ha! Should I actually compliment this man on his aristocratic chivalry?

Even in the feral delirium of an unexpected rut, he had possessed just enough terrifying discipline to stop at a temporary bite rather than sealing a permanent bond, keeping his claim temporary so high society wouldn't discover he had knotted an unregistered employee!

I let out a shaky breath, adjusted the stiff, high collar of the suit to conceal the swollen bite and burns, and grabbed my clutch from the vanity.

This was a massive penthouse suite, completely stripped of any lived-in warmth. It did not look like a hotel, yet in many ways, it felt just like one.

I pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the living pavilion.

Sure enough, it was a private residence.

A sprawling, minimalist salon stretched out before me, framed by panoramic glass overlooking the Hudson. And sitting right in the center of the leather sectional was a figure that made the breath catch dead in my throat.

He wore high-end black silk loungewear, wireless noise-canceling headphones over his ears, lounging on the sofa with an ergonomic pillow propping up his laptop. He looked indolent, effortless, and strikingly aloof.

Hearing my hesitant footsteps on the parquet, he slowly lifted his deep, piercing gaze.

The man sitting there was none other than my supreme corporate ruler, Winston Kensington...

Wasn't he supposed to be the untouchable, chaste monarch of the luxury fashion empire? The man who wore a Level VII titanium scent collar to board meetings and was rumored to be biologically immune to Omega pheromones?

Judging by his unhinged appetite last night, that monastic restraint was a total joke. He had not been practicing discipline; he had acted like a starved apex predator unleashed after a decade of solitary confinement.

I stood frozen in shock, my lips parting to speak, but Winston beat me to it.

"I am in a board briefing," he murmured, his deep baritone gravelly and dark with disuse.

I clamped my mouth shut instantly, knowing full well what an executive meeting entailed.

"Come here," he said calmly. "Have some breakfast."

He leaned forward slightly, his long, slender fingers pushing a warm glass of honey water across the marble table, nudging it toward a porcelain plate with a breakfast sandwich identical to his own.

As he leaned forward, the loose silk lapel of his loungewear fell open.

My heart practically stopped—the high-definition webcam on his laptop was angled directly toward his chest, framing the violent, inflamed crimson scratches and teeth marks running across his throat and collarbone. If the video feed was active, every single executive on that EMEA conference call was looking straight at my frantic handiwork.

My face burned so hot it felt like molten iron.

Those... were definitely left behind by my nails when his S-class pheromones had overwhelmed my senses midnight prior.

I silently prayed for the floor to open up and swallow me whole. Shivering slightly, I sat down on the absolute edge of the sofa, keeping as much distance between us as possible, my eyes darting everywhere except toward his face.

All I could do was obediently sip the warm honey water to soothe my parched throat and nibble on the sandwich.

Winston Kensington was famous across Manhattan for being ice-cold. Cold temper, cold personality, cold blood.

I had truly kicked a titanium plate this time.

I must have stumbled into the wrong vehicle last night.

Just yesterday afternoon, I had discovered that Nolan Price—my fiancé of five years—was secretly entangled with my former friend Audrey Reynolds. The sheer nausea and humiliation had driven me to drink far too much at the afterparty, completely numbing my biological caution.

Getting into the wrong car to drown the bitter taste of betrayal was disastrous enough, but waking up to realize I had tangled with my own CEO was a catastrophic nightmare. How could a razor-sharp Alpha fail to realize who had stumbled into his car? Sleeping with an entry-level designer—did he not care about his family's pristine pedigree at all?

Fifteen minutes later, he concluded the call, tapped a key to kill the feed, and shut the laptop. He finally picked up his silver fork, eating with calm, aristocratic grace.

"My apologies," he said evenly, cutting into his meal. "I did not know it was your first time. In the heat of the rut, I was... somewhat too rough."

He was as detached as ever, speaking in the exact same clinical tone he used during annual shareholder resolutions, his chiseled face entirely devoid of emotion.

Having just swallowed a mouthful of water, I felt the red flush instantly rush back into my cheeks in a burning wave.

What happened, happened! Did an apex Alpha really need to conduct a verbal post-rut performance review?!

"The family physician will be here shortly," he continued, not sparing my embarrassment a single glance. "Wait until your gland and vitals are examined before you leave."

Unbelievable. The moment the biological collision was over, he was calling in medical specialists. Was he terrified that my unbonded Omega system might conceive an unexpected heir to challenge the Kensington succession?

I drained the rest of the glass in one gulp, completely tongue-tied.

He finished his portion with efficient speed, setting his linen napkin aside.

"Wait here. I have an emergency acquisition review at headquarters today. I will have Liam drive you back to Queens."

I urgently cut in, rising from the cushion. "Lord Winston, I can take the subway or hail a cab on my own. It's really no trouble at all."

Winston paused, buttoning the cuffs of his silk shirt. He lifted his slate-gray eyes slightly, looking faintly, inexplicably aggrieved.

"Are you blaming me for not performing well last night?"

For some ungodly reason, my heart hammered like a trapped bird against my ribs.