Chapter 18: Late Night Summons

“Who told you,” he repeated, each word sharp and deliberate, “to leave work without my permission?”

My brain stuttered. “What the fuck—”

“I’m not done with you yet.” His tone was casual, conversational, like we were discussing weekend plans. “Get dressed. A car is waiting downstairs.”

“I—” I sat up, heart hammering. “It’s almost midnight. I finished the presentation. I did your corrections and sent it to your email—”

“I said you should redo it. I didn’t say you were dismissed for the evening.”

“You can’t just—”

“You have ten minutes.” His voice dropped lower. Colder. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

The line went dead.

I sat there in the dark, phone still pressed to my ear, trying to process what just happened.

A midnight summons.

From the CEO.

Who also happened to be blackmailing me into being his personal… whatever the hell I was now.

This is my life. This is actually my life.

I wanted to scream. To throw my phone across the room. To pack a bag and flee to another country where CEOs couldn’t reach me at midnight like I was some on-call service.

Instead, I dragged myself out of bed.

Because what choice did I have?

I threw on the first clothes I found. Jeans. A rumpled button-up I’d worn yesterday. My hands shook as I buttoned it.

Ten minutes.

I grabbed my wallet, my keys, checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror.

I looked like death. Eyes bloodshot. Hair sticking up at odd angles. Face gray with exhaustion.

Perfect.

I stumbled down the stairs of my apartment building, legs heavy, brain foggy.

And there it was.

A sleek black car idling at the curb, windows tinted, expensive enough that it looked like it belonged in a different zip code.

The driver’s side door opened.

A man in a crisp suit stepped out, professional, blank-faced.

“Mr. Bennett?” His voice was polite. Neutral. “The young master is expecting you.”

Young master?

What is this, a period drama? Am I being trafficked?

I didn’t have the energy to argue.

I got in the backseat.

The interior smelled like leather and money. The seats were soft enough to sleep on. Under different circumstances, I might’ve appreciated it.

Right now, I just wanted to die.

The driver pulled away from the curb smoothly, merging into late-night traffic.

I stared out the window, watching the city blur past.

Streetlights. Closed storefronts. A few late-night bars still lit up.

Normal people doing normal things.

Not being summoned to mysterious locations by psychopath CEOs at midnight.

My phone buzzed.

It was another message from Mason. I didn’t bother checking it.

How do you explain this? How do you tell your friend that your new boss owns you now? That you’d agreed to be his plaything in exchange for not going to prison?

You don’t.

You just survive.

The drive felt endless and too short at the same time.

Buildings grew taller. Nicer. We were heading into the expensive part of town, where people had doormen and valets and penthouses that cost more than I’d make in ten lifetimes.

Finally, the car slowed.

Pulled up to a hotel.

Not just any hotel.

The kind with marble columns flanking the entrance. Golden light spilling from floor-to-ceiling windows. A doorman in a tailored uniform who looked like he earned more than I did.

The kind of place where people like me didn’t belong.

Of course.

Of course it’s a five-star hotel. Why would it be anything else?

The driver opened my door.

“Mr. Wolfe is waiting for you inside, sir. Top floor.”

I stepped out onto the sidewalk, legs unsteady.

The doorman nodded as I approached, pulling open the heavy glass door like I was someone important instead of a sleep-deprived disaster in yesterday’s clothes.

The lobby hit me like a slap.

Marble floors so polished I could see my reflection. Chandeliers dripping with crystal. Soft piano music floating from somewhere unseen. The air smelled like expensive flowers and even more expensive perfume.

A woman behind the front desk glanced up at me.

Her smile faltered slightly.

I didn’t fit here. We both knew it.

Before I could spiral into full panic mode, another staff member appeared. Male, early thirties, impeccable suit.

“Mr. Bennett?”

How does everyone here know my name?

“Yes,” I managed.

“Mr. Wolfe is expecting you. Top floor, penthouse suite.” He produced a sleek keycard from his pocket and handed it to me. “The elevator is to your left.”

I took the card, fingers closing around it automatically.

Penthouse suite.

Of course.

Because a regular room would be too pedestrian for His Majesty.

I made my way to the elevator, feeling the weight of curious stares following me across the lobby.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.

I stepped inside.

The doors slid shut.

Silence.

I was alone with my reflection in the mirrored walls.

I looked worse than I’d thought. Rumpled. Exhausted. Defeated.

I look like a corpse.

The elevator began to rise, smooth and silent.

My mind raced.

Why does he want me here? What is this? Another test? Another humiliation?

Is he going to murder me and dump my body in the river?

Actually, that might be preferable to another presentation revision.

The numbers climbed. 20. 30. 40.

Top floor.

The elevator slowed, then stopped with a gentle bump.

The doors opened.

I stepped out into a short hallway. Plush carpet. Dim lighting. Only one door at the end.

The penthouse.

I walked forward on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else.

Stopped in front of the door.

Swiped the keycard.

The lock clicked.

I pushed the door open.

And stepped inside.

The suite was obscene.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the entire city, lights twinkling like fallen stars. Furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum. A full bar stocked with bottles I couldn’t afford even if I saved for a year. Ambient lighting that made everything look softer, warmer, more intimate than it had any right to be.

And there, by the window, silhouetted against the glowing skyline, was Cassian.

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