"Charisse, think it over again. We're talking five million just for one night with Mr. Grant."
Charisse Walton stayed silent. After a long pause, she finally reached for that skimpy dress barely covering anything.
It wasn’t about pride or shame—her dad’s medical bills couldn’t wait.
The hotel manager saw her reaction and immediately smiled, whispering, "Don’t worry, I’ll keep everything under wraps. Owen won’t find out."
Charisse shook her head. "I’m breaking up with him."
Doing something like this crossed every moral line she had, and she couldn't pretend like nothing happened with Owen Carter.
She changed into the dress, sent Owen a breakup message, and stepped into the private elevator.
The penthouse was cold and extravagant, but she didn’t spare it a glance—not even the man sitting with his back to her, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window.
He didn’t speak. Eyes lowered, Charisse asked quietly, "So... are we getting straight to it, or do we shower first?"
In the stillness, she heard the faint rustle of movement as the man stood and walked over.
As he neared, a faint cedar scent reached her—clean, sharp, and somehow cold.
Suddenly, he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up.
The moment their eyes met, Charisse froze, wide-eyed like she’d been struck by lightning. "Why is it you?!"
A rush of memories flashed through her mind, racing back nineteen years, when she was six.
The nanny returning from her hometown had brought along an eight-year-old boy, saying with gratitude, "Thank you, sir and ma’am, for letting Elliot study in the city. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you."
Then she brought the boy to stand in front of her, saying, "Elliot, this is Miss Charisse I told you about. Take good care of her, alright?"
The two kids looked at each other—Charisse with entitled pride, the boy with a hint of nervous curiosity.
Now, the tables had turned. He stood above her, everything flipped.
But wasn’t his name Elliot Davis? How did he end up being called Mr. Grant?
Compared to her shock, Elliot Grant looked coldly composed.
He stared down at her with no expression, voice dripping with mockery. "Wow, Miss Walton… is this what you’ve come to after all these years?"
The years of butting heads had conditioned her to snap back instinctively. "And the guy picking up girls in hotels—what kind of winner is he?"
Elliot's hand slid from her chin to the back of her neck. With one swift push, he pulled them closer, so close their noses nearly brushed.
His eyes were icy, and his presence felt suffocating. "Miss Walton, when you dumped me so coldly back then, did it ever cross your mind we’d end up like this?"
Charisse's lips pressed into a tight line. "That was years ago. I barely remember anymore."
"Really?"
"Yeah. I had an accident when I was seventeen. Lost about a year’s worth of memories around that time."
Elliot let out a laugh, sharp and humorless. "And that’s the best excuse you’ve come up with after all this time?"
He leaned in, laughter vanishing, his tone suddenly freezing. "Or did you just think I’d still be dumb enough to believe you, like before?"
"I never lied to you.""You think just 'cause you don't remember it, that means it didn’t happen?"
Elliot Grant would never forget the icy words Charisse Walton had thrown at him when they broke up. Not in this life.
Even when he was clinging to life after the accident, laid up unconscious in a hospital bed, she didn’t even bother showing up once. He was out cold, still calling her name. And her? She sent a bank card through someone else, then jetted off with her friends to party on some island. Didn't even ask once if he made it out alive.
So now she acts like none of it matters? Like her coldness back then didn’t leave a mark?
Of course not. She’s always been the kind to turn her heart off like a switch.
He suddenly let go of her wrist, walked over and slumped onto the sofa. His eyes had gone stone-cold. "Since you don’t remember, let’s just pretend this is our first time meeting."
Charisse lifted her chin, calm and composed. "That’s fair."
He was riding high; she’d hit rock bottom. If they were talking history, she’d be the one reaching up.
"Alright then, let’s start. I hope Miss Walton lives up to the price I’m paying."
She didn’t even flinch at the jab. "You’re being so generous, Mr. Grant. I’ll make sure you get your money’s worth."
Charisse had figured it out—he called her here on purpose, just to watch her fall.
She moved closer, settling beside him, taking a steadying breath as she leaned in.
But just as their lips were about to touch, Elliot turned his head ever so slightly, dodging her.
She froze. Message received loud and clear.
She’d heard it before—some men hate kissing during these kinds of deals. They think girls in this line of work don’t deserve that kind of intimacy.
Charisse pressed her lips together, bitterness rising in her throat.
Right now, in his eyes, she was no different from those women working the hotel floors. Dirty. Disposable.
A soft clink broke the silence—she’d unfastened his belt.
Elliot sat still, face unreadable. But when her hand reached for him, his jaw tightened, sharp enough to cut.
"With your mouth," he said, voice deep and low.
Charisse paused, then nodded. "Okay."
She slid to the floor gracefully, her smooth, bare back exposed by the sheer dress she wore.
A few strands of hair slipped over her shoulder, jet black against her pale skin—it was a striking contrast.
Elliot remembered how, back in the day, after her baths, maids at the Walton house would line up just to pamper her with oils and creams.
Miss Walton had been pampered since birth. Even her hair used to smell like luxury—like snow up high on a mountaintop, only meant to be looked at, never touched.
But now… that snow was melting right in front of him.
Her hesitation and clumsiness made his demand seem cruel, even vulgar. But back then, when he’d laid his whole heart out for her and she stomped all over it, did she ever stop to think she’d gone too far?
Suddenly, Charisse stood back up and sprang at him, lips crashing into his.
It wasn’t a kiss—it was more like a bite, wild and a little unhinged.
And when she pulled away, she stared him dead in the eye, that smile twisted and defiant. "If you're gonna make me sick, I might as well gross you out first."