3: Chapter 3: Disappear from My Room Immediately 3: Chapter 3: Disappear from My Room The mist in the suite gradually thinned, peeling back the layers of silence until the scene before Ashton Heath became sharply defined.

A woman sat by the edge of the marble bath. Her presence was a striking contrast to the clinical coldness of the room. She possessed a face that seemed etched from fine porcelain—delicate brows, eyes that held the depth of a twilight sky, and lips the color of pale cherry blossoms. Even for Ashton, a man whose position forced him to navigate circles of unrivaled beauty, the sight was momentary arresting.

Is this the latest 'gift' from Yannick Luther and his faction? Ashton thought, a cynical coldness settling in his chest. They never learn.

He remained at a distance, his silhouette tall and imposing against the soft light. A thin, frigid smile touched his lips. “You have sixty seconds,” he stated, his voice a blade of pure ice. “Vacate this room on your own, or be removed. I have no patience for these tired theatrics.”

The woman slowly lifted her head. Her brow furrowed as if she were processing his words through a heavy fog. Then, with a sudden, fluid movement, she reached out.

Before Ashton could recoil, her fingers brushed against the fabric of his trousers.

Ashton’s entire frame went rigid. He waited for the familiar, visceral wave of revulsion—the suffocating physical rejection he had suffered from for years. Since his youth, a deep-seated psychological barrier had made any proximity to a woman outside his immediate bloodline an impossibility, often triggering a violent sensory overload.

But the reaction never came.

There was no nausea, no frantic need to distance himself. Instead, there was only the steady, grounding reality of her touch.

Ashton looked down, his deep, dark eyes widening in genuine astonishment. The silence in the room suddenly felt heavy with the weight of this biological anomaly. Before he could rationalize the situation, the woman stood.

She moved with a desperate, uncoordinated grace. Her hand reached upward, her arm light as a shadow against his neck. As she rose on her tiptoes, the distance between them evaporated. In a moment that defied every rule of his existence, her lips met his—a brief, soft contact that felt like a spark in a dark room.

She looked at him with eyes that were hazy and bright with unshed tears, her voice a fractured whisper.

“Help me.”