I knew her from class. Quiet, focused—she caught my attention from the start. To her, I was just another guy in the back row, blending in. But I’d noticed her. For weeks, I’d been watching her work, and I doubt she had any idea who I really was. Why would she? To her, I was just another face in our project group—not the heir to the Hawthorne empire. That felt refreshing.

She worked at the hotel—my hotel. I’d spot her now and then, cleaning rooms, lost in her own world. There was this quiet determination about her, like she was there with a purpose and had no time for anything else. I admired that. Hell, it intrigued me. But last night? Last night, I saw her in my penthouse.

She was there, moving around, dusting, straightening things out, unaware I was watching her from behind the door. I’d slipped away from some family event, just wanting a moment to myself, when I walked in and saw her. It threw me off. Sure, I knew she worked here, but seeing her in my own space hit different.

She didn’t see me, though. She finished and left, none the wiser. But now, I can’t get her out of my head. She walked into my world without realizing it, and I’m not letting that slide.

So here I am, leaning against the doorframe while she’s cleaning, completely unaware of what’s about to go down. She’ll know who I am soon enough. And when she does, I can’t wait to see the look on her face.

“Didn’t think I’d find my favorite group partner here, of all places,” I say, a smirk tugging at my lips. Yeah, it’s an asshole move, but I can’t help it. I want her to feel me under her skin, the same way she’s gotten under mine.