"Claire Morgan, kiss me."

On the balcony of the second floor, Claire stood cornered between the railing and James Sinclair.

The heat rolling off his body burned through her thin dress, searing her back.

He had one hand braced next to her head on the glass wall, the other clamped firmly around her waist—his whole stance screamed dominance.

“No, James, we can’t do this!”

She turned her face away, arms braced against his solid chest, pushing hard.

James leaned in just a little closer, his warm breath brushing her ear. His quiet voice carried a dangerous edge.

"Stay still. One more move, and your dear fiancé will see his bride-to-be in his uncle’s arms.”

Claire froze. Her eyes darted down to the garden below, towards the lush roses just beyond the trellis-covered gazebo. Two figures, far too entangled, caught her gaze.

Her fiancé, Michael Sinclair, had Nina Morgan pressed up against the vine-wrapped column, their kiss deep and shameless.

One of his hands had already slipped under the slit of Nina’s dress.

Anyone who didn’t know would assume they were the ones getting married.

Claire squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bear the sight anymore.

"You think closing your eyes will make it all go away?"

James let out a low chuckle that sent chills down her spine, his lips trailing down the line of her neck, slow and hot, grazing over her bare back, her collarbone, her chest.

Wherever his skin touched hers, a storm of shivers followed.

"Claire Morgan, looks like your three million isn’t gonna cut it anymore.”

With a cruel edge of satisfaction, he bit down on her lip.

"So I guess I’ll reluctantly sleep with you once instead.”

Forced to tilt her head back beneath his kiss, Claire's chest tightened as her heart thudded violently.

Embarrassment, betrayal… and a raw panic twisted together, trapping her like a net she couldn’t escape.

But what terrified her most wasn’t the kiss, or the pain—it was the shameful, buried craving beginning to wake inside her.

She couldn’t lie to herself. Even after three years apart, she was still drawn to him like a moth to flame.This man—it’s no exaggeration to say everyone in Country Z knows who he is. He’s the richest tycoon around, a ruthless force in the business world, and even Michael Sinclair has to respectfully call him “Uncle.”

He’s also the guy Claire Morgan loved so deeply three years ago…and broke up with just as painfully.

…

Three days ago, Claire had just wrapped up work when she got a call from the hospital.

“Miss Morgan? Mr. Michael Sinclair is here. He got a little too…enthusiastic while having sex with his girlfriend and ended up with some soft tissue damage. He needs to be admitted—could you come in to handle the paperwork?”

What the actual hell? Her fiancé got injured having sex with another woman?

Fuming with rage, Claire totally lost it.

She jumped in her car and sped toward the hospital, but while turning a corner too fast, she smashed right into a Rolls-Royce Phantom.

Seeing the nasty dent she’d made, Claire hurried out, bowed, and blurted, “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you!”

Just as she spoke, the car’s back window slowly rolled down.

Then, a tall figure stepped out, his presence so intense it made the air feel heavy.

Claire stiffened as she looked up—and instantly froze. The man in front of her, half in shadow, had the kind of face she'd dreamed of and cried over countless nights.

James Sinclair.

What was he doing here?

It was like time came to a sudden halt.

Three years. A full three years.

She thought she’d never see him again, that their paths wouldn’t cross—not like this, anyway. Not when she was at her absolute low.

He looked even more put-together now, his aura sharper, colder, and way more intimidating.

But those eyes—ones that once held nothing but warmth and laughter for her—were now as cold and distant as frozen lakes.

He stared down at her, expression unreadable, like she was just some random annoyance on the street.

Claire stood frozen, hands and feet numb, her breath stuck somewhere in her throat.

Everything around her faded—no noise, no colors—nothing but the man in front of her and that chilling look in his eyes.

His gaze moved over her pale, startled face, down to her clenched fists, and finally stopped at her slightly scraped knee.

And then, in the most casual tone imaginable, he said, “Hey, ex-girlfriend. Long time no see.”