Tattooed in Moonlight

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The suite door clicked shut behind me, and I collapsed face-first into a velvet couch. My tote bag thudded to the floor.

"This is kidnapping," I groaned into a pillow. "Designer kidnapping. Rich-people ransom without the ransom note."

My phone buzzed on the coffee table. Lila.

I answered, holding the phone up like a distress signal. "Save me."

Her face filled the screen, smug as ever. "Oh, I'd love to. But you're busy trending again."

My stomach dropped. "No."

"Yes." She turned her screen to show me her feed. Hashtags everywhere. Photos of me descending the stairs of Travis's jet, hand brushing his like he owned gravity itself. Flashbulbs exploding. My awkward, fake smile immortalized.

I groaned into the pillow. "Kill me now."

"DragonBride 2.0," Lila sing-sang. "The internet is convinced. You're practically a national export now."

I flopped dramatically onto my back, staring at the chandelier. "Perfect. Exactly what I needed. My father's probably drafting a presidential address right now. My mother's already buying a handbag to match the scandal. And my manager—" I winced. "She'll explode. Pieces of her stress will scatter across Makati."

Lila grinned. "Can I get front row seats to that?"

"No."

"Yes."

"Lila!"

"Tour. Now."

I groaned. "That's blackmail."

"Correct. Efficient blackmail," she said sweetly.

I shot her a look. "You sound like him."

"Good," she said. "Then it'll annoy you into compliance."

Reluctantly, I flipped the camera around. "Fine. Welcome to my prison cell. Behold, Versailles with Wi-Fi."

The suite was obscene. White marble floors, chandeliers like galaxies, floor-to-ceiling windows spilling sunlight over furniture that looked too expensive to sit on.

"Holy crap," Lila breathed. "This isn't a penthouse. This is an entire planet."

"Exactly," I muttered, panning the camera toward the windows. "And look. Taipei. Mountains, river, civilization. Yay. Can I sit down now?"

The city glittered under the haze, endless and dazzling.

"You don't deserve this view," Lila said flatly.

"I don't want this view," I shot back. "I want my bed, my fried chicken, my Netflix."

"Sure you do," she teased. "Okay, what else? Show me the bedroom."

"No."

"Yes."

"Lila—"

"Bedroom. Chop chop."

I sighed dramatically and trudged toward the hallway, flipping the camera to reveal a bed so massive it could host a summit meeting.

"Jesus," Lila whispered. "That's not a bed. That's a continent."

"Perfect for all the sleep I won't get," I said flatly.

"And maybe not sleeping alone?" she teased.

"Don't start."

And then—like the devil answering prayers—his voice came from behind me.

"Kaira."

I froze.