周伊雯

After losing both parents, Clara Morgan was taken in by the Windsor family—a household bound to her by an arranged childhood marriage pact. On graduation day, she witnessed Ethan Windsor, the heir she’d secretly loved for years, entangled with the prom queen in the home. Without a word, she walked away.
Years later, fueled by quiet vengeance, Clara joined Hartwell Enterprises as the personal secretary to Sebastian Hartwell—New York’s most ruthless billionaire and its most untouchable bachelor. The night she succeeded in seducing him, regret flooded her. She sobbed and begged, but Sebastian refused to relent.

He tossed her an envelope thick with cash. "$1,000,000. Choose between contraception or abortion."
Clara swallowed her tears. "Thank you, Mr. Hartwell."
When Clara later tried to resign, Sebastian shredded her letter. "Step outside this door," he hissed, "and I’ll make your life in New York a waking hell."

Then came the tabloid scandal: photos of Sebastian kneeling in pouring rain to tie Clara’s shoelaces, his designer suit drenched. His assistant asked, "Shall we bury the headlines?"

Sebastian’s reply was ice-cold. "Pay every outlet to keep it trending—until she agrees to be my wife."

Fatal Flirtation: The CEO’s Unraveling

Clara Morgan woke with a stretch, surprised to find the ache from yesterday had dulled. Was it the ointment, Sebastian's unexpected gentleness, or sheer adaptation? She shook her head, preferring to credit Imperial Hospital's expertise.

Beside her, Sebastian Hartwell still slept. Clara inched closer, studying his flawless features. How many women in the city longed to lie in this bed? Yet here she was—plain, ordinary her. Why? Because I'm obedient? Easy?

The $1400k deposit in her account made her skin crawl. This was a transaction; she'd sold herself. What if she met someone she loved? Could she confess this? No. She reached for her phone and transferred the money back.

A text chime jolted Sebastian awake. He sat up, sheets pooling at his waist. Michelangelo musculature mocked her shame."Compensating me post-coitus?" His voice could frost champagne. "Am I your gigolo, Clara?"

"No, CEO Hartwell—you gave too much."

Heat flooded her cheeks. "The sum was... disproportionate to services rendered."

"Services." Sebastian repeated the word like poisoned candy. He traced her collarbone. "What exactly are you bargaining for? A ring? A coronation?"

"Liar." He lunged, pinning her wrists. Morning light gilded the bite marks on her hips—his signature. "The woman who returns $1400k seeks greater currency." His hips ground against hers. "Power? Or just more of this?"

Clara felt his arousal—a brand through thin cotton. Christ, I'll need a Plan B stockpile.

His eyes bored into her. No greed? Is she playing hard to get, angling for a Hartwell ring? A smirk tugged his lips. "Interesting. Let's play."

Clara tensed at his predatory smile. Before she could retreat, he pinned her down. "Open up, darling."

After showering and breakfast, Clara asked for an hour off to change. Dressed in a crisp suit, Sebastian had reverted to the ice-cold CEO—until they stepped into the hall.

Alexander Han and Julian Lorimer lounged on the sofa, eyes widening at Clara.

"Dr. Lorimer, Mr. Han," she said stiffly, forcing a professional smile.

Julian whistled. "Morning, Sleeping Beauty." He stage-whispered to Alex: "Where's Valentina?"

Lucian's grin turned wolfish. "So. How many rounds did His Majesty demand?"

The suite door hissed open. Sebastian leaned against the frame—savior and executioner. "Five last night." His eyes locked on Clara. "Seven including dawn service."

Julian choked on espresso. "Seven? Christ, Hartwell—starting a friction fire?"

Sebastian's smile promised violence. "Want the prequel? Two nights ago, she wept through the first three before passing out. Woke up begging for more."

Clara fled to the elevator, their laughter chasing her like hounds.

Chapter 7: Friction fire