Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Morning came far too quickly.

The blackout curtains in the penthouse tried to help, but my body clock didn't care. By 7 a.m., I was awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying last night like a blooper reel.

"You saw it."

"Nope!"

I groaned, dragging a pillow over my face. "Kill me now."

The thing about being an actress is, you're supposed to be able to perform under pressure. Smile for the cameras, deliver the line, hit your mark. Easy. But apparently, put me on a rooftop with a glowing dragon tattoo and one very intense billionaire, and suddenly I forget how to human.

"Glow stick," I muttered. "Really, Kaira? That's what you came up with? Out of all the words in the English language, that's the best you had?"

The pillow muffled my scream of frustration.

I finally dragged myself out of bed, determined to reclaim some dignity. A long shower, a silk robe, hair wrapped in a towel—perfect. I was back to being the composed, glamorous superstar the world adored.

Except then I opened my phone.

Headline #1: Who Will See the Tattoo? Billionaire Travis Javierres's Shocking Declaration Shakes Asia.

Headline #2: TattooGate: Netizens Theorize on Location of Travis Javierres's Ink—Back? Chest? Somewhere Spicier?

Headline #3: #WhereIsHisTattoo Trends Worldwide as Fans Speculate Who the Chosen One Will Be.

I threw the phone onto the bed. "Nope. Not my circus, not my dragon."

A knock at the door.

I froze.

Housekeeping? Room service? Paparazzi in disguise? My paranoia had reached peak levels after years in the spotlight. Carefully, I approached the door and peered through the peephole.

A hotel staff member stood outside, holding a silver tray.

Relieved, I cracked the door open. "Yes?"

"Good morning, Miss Chaves," the staff member said with a polite bow. "Mr. Javierres asked that this be delivered to your suite."

My stomach dropped.

On the tray sat a covered dish and a single white envelope.

I took it, muttered a thanks, and shut the door quickly before my brain could short-circuit.

Back at the table, I lifted the lid of the dish. Waffles. Perfectly golden, stacked neatly, drizzled with syrup.

And the envelope?

My fingers hesitated before tearing it open. Inside was a single card. Heavy paper, no logo, no flourish. Just two words written in clean, dark ink:

"You saw it."

I stared at the note, then at the waffles, then back at the note.

"Oh, no," I whispered. "He knows I like waffles."

Because that was the real violation here—not that he'd sent me a note, not that he'd acknowledged what happened last night, but that somehow, impossibly, he'd pegged my breakfast weakness in one move.

I collapsed onto the chair, head in my hands. "This man is dangerous."

The waffles mocked me.

Golden, fluffy, perfect. The kind of waffles you see in food commercials, where someone dramatically drizzles syrup in slow motion. But every time I tried to take a bite, my eyes went back to the note.