The last thing Stella Griffith remembered was drinking a glass of wine.

Born into the chaos of the apocalypse and having clawed her way through eighteen years of it, she had only ever heard of this stuff in old survivors’ stories, or seen it in ancient films.

The liquor slid down her throat, rich and mellow. She only caught a faint trace of sweetness before her mind started drifting, light and unsteady.

When she opened her eyes again, the first thing she saw was that dangerously intimate glow.

Not the harsh white or bloody red light of the wasteland, but something warm, fluid, almost unreal—like melted amber spilling down from the crystal chandelier overhead.

The air carried a scent too.

Not blood. Not rot.

It was a cold, restrained sandalwood fragrance, clean and distant, the kind that made people think twice before getting close.

Someone was here.

Her nerves instantly tightened. Years of surviving the end of the world snapped her awake by sheer reflex.

But her body refused to cooperate. It felt boneless, ridiculously weak, as if all her strength had been drained out. Worse, an unfamiliar heat was crawling through her, scorching her from the inside out.

She turned her head.

On the other side of the bed, a man was leaning against the headboard.

He was wearing a bathrobe, the collar hanging loose enough to reveal a stretch of lean collarbone and a smooth, toned chest.

His hair was still damp. Tiny droplets slid from the ends, trailing down the side of his neck, gliding over the sharp rise of his Adam’s apple before disappearing into the pale edge of his robe.

Stella’s gaze paused there for one second.

The man was looking at her too. His profile was sharp and cold, like it had been cut from stone. High brow bone, thin lips pressed together, the whole vibe screaming keep out.

That kind of elegance, that kind of distance—it was baked into his bones, matching this absurdly luxurious hotel room a little too well.

But she had zero brain space to analyze any of that right now.

She was just hot.

That heat burned through her until her mouth went dry. Her thoughts had turned into mush, and only instinct was still online.

That Adam’s apple... nice.

Long fingers.

A sharp shoulder-and-neck line, sexy in that clean, dangerous way.

After surviving eighteen years in the apocalypse and seeing the ugliest side of human nature way too many times, Stella Griffith had developed a brutally simple standard for judging people:

If they could fight, good.

If they could stay alive, even better.

And if all else failed, enjoy the moment.

She closed her eyes and edged half an inch closer to him.

Then another half inch.

The next second, an arm suddenly came around her, firm and overbearing, circling her waist and dragging her whole body straight into a chest that carried a cool, distant scent.

She tipped her face up.

The man lowered his head.

His eyes were right there, absurdly close—black, deep, like a frozen pool with no visible bottom.

At that moment, that sheet of ice reflected her face.

It also reflected a trace of dark fire, something the drug had coaxed awake.

He watched her for a few seconds, like he was confirming something.

Then the ice cracked, and the fire spread.

Stella’s last clear thought was: Yeah... up close, his Adam’s apple looks even better.

What happened after that, she couldn’t really remember.

Only scattered, broken bits of sensation remained—the aloof, cool sandalwood scent on the man’s body, the scorching heat of his skin, the heavy and steady thump of his heartbeat, and one moment when she heard her own voice, shattered beyond recognition.

**

Stella Griffith was woken by sunlight.

The curtains hadn’t been fully drawn, and a strip of golden light landed right across her eyelids.

She frowned and opened her eyes, staring at the huge crystal chandelier above her for three full seconds before her memory slowly came back.

Wine.

A man.

His Adam’s apple.

And then...

She shifted a little, and every inch of her body ached like she’d gone eight hundred rounds with zombies.

Still, this body had obviously been cleaned up. Fresh, dry, comfortable. None of that sticky, gross after-feeling.

Someone was beside her.

She didn’t open her eyes. Her breathing stayed steady too, even and calm, as she kept playing asleep.

"If you’re awake, open your eyes."

His voice was low, carrying that lazy, husky edge of someone who’d just woken up, but the chill in it was still there.

Stella Griffith didn’t move.

The man seemed to let out a quiet little laugh, brief and faint, with no real warmth in it. "Pretending to sleep?"

Fine.

She opened her eyes and turned her head.

The man had already gotten dressed. White shirt, black slacks, cuff buttons fastened neatly, not a single detail out of place. He was leaning back in the armchair at the foot of the bed.

Sunlight fell across the side of his face, brushing him in a pale gold glow. He looked absurdly refined, cold and expensive, nothing like the man from last night who had pinned her in his arms and turned into a pure, primal beast.

He lifted his eyes, his gaze sweeping lightly across her face, like he was evaluating an object.

Stella Griffith looked back at him too.

Waiting.

Surely he wasn’t about to make her take responsibility for this, right?

"What’s your name?" he asked.

Stella Griffith blinked. "Stella Griffith."

She had only started using that name two days ago, so saying it out loud still felt a little awkward, like a new coat that hadn’t quite warmed to her skin yet.

The man gave a small nod and looked her over without showing much on his face. Then his thin lips parted. "I’m Roland Merritt."

He paused for half a beat, his tone calm and flat. "What happened last night was an accident. We were both drugged. No one really came out worse than the other."

Stella agreed with that.

"But as for last night..." He stopped again, his gaze settling on her face, the meaning in his eyes impossible to miss. "It wasn’t bad."

Stella got what he meant.

She didn’t say anything.

Roland clearly didn’t need her to answer anyway. He just kept going, cool and direct. "I don’t like trouble. Since it already happened, we might as well make a long-term arrangement."

"One hundred thousand a month. You be my bed partner."

"If I need you, I’ll call. The rest of the time, we stay out of each other’s business."

Stella’s heartbeat skipped hard.

One hundred thousand.

The original owner of this body had spent three years scraping by as an extra in the entertainment industry, and the balance in her bank account had never once gone past five digits.

One hundred thousand a month meant 1.2 million a year. Enough to buy a small apartment in a place like this. Enough to stock up on rice, flour, oil, all the basic stuff. Enough for her to lie flat and just eat, eat, eat until she was sick of it.

She was insanely tempted. Totally shook.

But she still didn’t speak.

After waiting two seconds, Roland seemed to think she found the offer too low. His brows drew together just a little, and he raised the price on the spot.

"One million."

The tip of Stella’s heart trembled violently.

"One million."

"For one month!"

What kind of guy started bidding at a million like it was pocket change?

And if this kept going... would it turn into ten million next?

Her silence dragged on for just a few seconds, but in Roland Merritt’s eyes, it clearly meant something else.

His expression cooled on the spot.

"Miss Griffith." He rose to his feet and looked down at her from above, his tone chilly enough to frost the air. "My advice? Know when to stop."

"One million is already way above market rate."

Stella Griffith: "..."

She really had no clue what the so-called market rate even was.

Her lips parted, about to explain.

But Roland had already run out of patience. He turned and headed for the door, tall and straight-backed, every line of him distant, restrained, untouchably proud.

This kind of arrangement only worked when both sides were willing. A woman who asked for too much, who didn’t know where the line was, was just trouble waiting to happen.

Seeing that he was really about to leave, Stella panicked.

She reached out and caught the hem of his shirt.

Roland stopped.

He didn’t turn around, but he didn’t shake her off either.

Stella took a breath and started frantically piecing together her words in her head.

She had to make this clear. Otherwise, that one million that had practically landed in her lap would just fly away.

But she was in rough shape right now—her throat was hoarse, her head was spinning, and every inch of her body ached.

In the end, she decided to cut straight to it.

"No," she said. "I'm not saying it's too little."

Roland Merritt tilted his head a fraction, quiet and patient, clearly waiting for the rest.

"I just want to confirm one thing."

"What thing?"

Stella Griffith still didn't let go of his shirt. With her other hand, she slowly lifted it and held it out in front of him, palm up. Her fingers were long and neat, the whole hand clean and pretty.

"Your medical report."