Acceptable Service: Tipping The Ruthless Billionaire

if a semi-truck had parked directly on her skull. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, afraid that letting in even a sliver of light would shatter her h

It was hard

s snapp

veal the situation. She was in a bed the size of a small island. The sheets were high-thread-count Egyptian cotton,

mped a hand over her mouth to stifl

ve bar where she tried to drown the sorrow of her father's latest medical bill. The sleazy guy who wouldn't take no for a

Sharp jawline, dark stubble, a nose that looked like it ha

This was The Pierre Hotel. This was a penthouse suite. And thi

ort. A high-end, ex

. And now, she had likely racked up a bill for services she couldn't even rem

to mov

er dress-a thrift store find that had seen better days-was in a heap on the carpe

other was under the nightstand. As she reached for the second

h

in the silent roo

brow furrowed, and a low, guttu

Her heart hammered against her ribs

over, burying his face in the pill

t felt like theft. Even if it was a mistake, services were rendered.

ds and crumpled receipts. Tucked in the back was a single, crisp one-hundre

asting iron. She p

t was an insult. A hundred dollars for a night in the Pierre penthouse with a man wearing a watch like that? It was laughable. But it was all she had. And some s

cceptable. Ke

as petty. It was all t

sh carpet swallowing her footsteps. She slipped into the hallway, t

ther hour until the biological clock of a man w

ders opene

his mind sharpening like a blade. He reached out, expectin

ling a map of defined muscle. He rubbed a hand over his face, feelin

ifted to th

fro

and a piece of currency. He picked up the bill first. B

ed up t

was ac

rds. The ink was smudge

o throb. The air in the room

ntrolled a four-billion-dollar empire. He could bu

him a hundred bucks and rated h

in his fist, his knu

ury. "Preston. Pull the security footage from the penthou