[Lottie’s POV]
I wake with my phone still clutched in my hand like evidence at a crime scene where I'm both perpetrator and victim.
The screen is dark. Dead battery, probably. Drained by whatever cosmic forces power late-night phone calls that end in orgasms you definitely didn't plan on having with your stepbrother.
Oliver's voice echoes in my memory. Low. Commanding. Absolutely devastating.
Touch yourself. Two fingers. Slow circles.
I squeeze my eyes shut but the memory plays anyway. My fingers following his instructions like my body had been waiting years for someone to finally give it proper directions. The orgasm crashing through me while he listened, satisfied, on the other end of the line.
I shower at surface-of-the-sun temperature. Scalding seems appropriate for my crimes against basic human decency. Twenty minutes of aggressive scrubbing does absolutely nothing to erase the memory of his breath in my ear.
My reflection in the foggy mirror looks the same as always. Brown hair. Tired eyes. A woman who let her stepbrother who she allegedly hates talk her through pleasure via telephone like some sort of 1990s hotline situation.
Fantastic. Completely normal. Nothing to see here whatsoever.
I'm halfway through packing my bag—shoving clothes in with the precision of someone fleeing a crime scene—when three sharp raps land on my door.
Confident. Unhurried. Unmistakable.
I know who it is before I answer. The way I know my own heartbeat. The way I know I should absolutely not open this door under any circumstances.
I open it anyway. Because apparently my self-preservation instincts emigrated to another continent without leaving a forwarding address.
Oliver leans against the doorframe like he owns the entire hotel and everyone unfortunate enough to be staying in it. White shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The silver medallion rests against his chest. His green eyes sweep over me with devastating slowness.
"You hung up on me."
"I didn't hang up. You hung up."
"Semantics." He tilts his head, taking in my disheveled appearance with apparent amusement. "You look terrible, by the way."
"Charming. Absolutely charming." I cross my arms defensively. "Is there a reason you're here, or do you just enjoy commenting on my appearance at inappropriate hours?"
"It's eleven in the morning."
"Still feels inappropriate."
His smile is slow. Knowing. The smile of a man who spent last night listening to me come apart over a phone line and hasn't stopped thinking about it since.
"Invite me in, Lottie."
"Absolutely not."
"Why?" He shifts closer. Just slightly. Just enough. "Afraid of what might happen?"
"Nothing's going to happen, Oliver. Last night was—" I search for the right word. Mistake seems too mild. Catastrophe too dramatic. "—an aberration."
"An aberration." He tastes the word like expensive wine he's considering sending back. "That's what we're calling it now?"
"What would you call it?"
"Progress."
Heat floods my cheeks. My neck. Lower. My traitorous body remembering exactly how it felt to follow his commands in the dark.
"There's no progress. There's nothing between us except a legal family connection I didn't ask for and a childhood history of you being genuinely terrible to me."
"And yet." He steps closer. Close enough that I can smell his cologne. Close enough that every nerve ending in my body stands at attention like soldiers awaiting orders. "You answered the phone last night. You did everything I told you to do. You came with my name trapped behind your teeth."
"I didn't—" The lie dies before it fully forms. We both know the truth. He heard it happen. "That doesn't change anything fundamental about this situation."
"It changes everything." His voice drops to that register that makes my spine want to liquify. "You spent twenty-four years believing you were broken. Convinced you were wired wrong. One phone call proved otherwise."
"One phone call proves you're skilled at giving instructions. Congratulations. Add it to your professional résumé alongside everything else you've perfected."
Something flickers across his face. A shadow. A crack in the carefully maintained armor.
"Is that what you think this is? Me practicing techniques? Running through some polished routine?"
"Isn't it?"
He's silent for a long moment. The hallway behind him stretches empty and endless. Just ugly carpet and tasteful sconces and enough unresolved tension to power a small European nation through winter.
"No," he says finally. "It isn't."
"Then what is it, Oliver? Because from where I'm standing, this looks exactly like every game you've been playing since I arrived."
"I don't know." The admission seems to cost him something real. A vulnerability I've never glimpsed beneath all that practiced charm. "I've spent ten years perfecting control. Reading women. Never losing myself in any encounter, no matter how intense."
He meets my eyes with devastating directness. No smirk. No deflection. Just raw honesty that makes my chest ache unexpectedly.
"You undo all of it completely."
The confession hangs between us. Raw. Unexpected. Nothing like the smooth operator who's been tormenting me relentlessly all week.
"Oliver—"
"I should go." He steps back abruptly. Creates distance I didn't expect to feel as loss. "Checkout is in two hours. I assume you're catching the noon train back to London."
"Yes."
"Good." He nods once. Already turning away. "Safe travels, Lottie."
He's walking away. Actually walking away. No smirk. No suggestive comment. No power play or final seduction attempt.
Just honest vulnerability followed by immediate retreat. The most human I've ever seen him look.
My hand shoots out before my brain approves the motion.
"Wait."
He stops. Doesn't turn.
"Why did you call me last night? Really. Not the games. Not the seduction. The actual truth."
The silence stretches unbearably. His shoulders rise and fall with a breath I can't hear.
"Because I couldn't stop thinking about you." His voice is quiet. Almost defeated. "Because watching you at that reception, pretending I didn't want you, was the hardest thing I've done in years. Because I'm tired of pretending any of this is just a game I'm playing."
He turns now. His expression is completely unguarded for the first time since I've known him.
"Is that honest enough for you?"
I should let him go. Should close this door and catch my train and resume my normal life of spreadsheets and emotional suppression and definitely never thinking about him again.
Instead, I hear myself say: "Room 412. One hour."
His eyes widen. The only sign that I've genuinely surprised him.
"Lottie—"
"Don't make me repeat it. And don't make me regret it." I step backward into my room. "One hour, Oliver."
I close the door before I can change my mind.
My heart hammers against my ribs. My hands shake as I lean against the frame. My entire body vibrates with anticipation and terror in equal measure.
What am I doing?
The question echoes without producing helpful answers. Just pounding pulse and desperate want and the absolute certainty that I'm about to make a terrible, irreversible decision.
I'm going to let it happen anyway.
Because Oliver Crawford just showed me something real beneath all that practiced charm. And I spent twenty-four years believing I was broken beyond repair.
Maybe it's time to find out who I actually am when I stop protecting myself.
The clock reads 11:07.
Fifty-three minutes until everything changes completely.