Chapter 133
[ 502 words ]
Chapter 133:
Rows of perfectly tailored, dark-colored suits hung in absolute military precision. Dozens of crisp white shirts were aligned by collar type. A glass display case held a collection of expensive, heavy steel watches.
She scanned the shelves, looking for a specific detail.
There was no perfume. No stray hairpins. No brightly colored silk robes. There was absolutely zero trace of female presence in the room.
A strange, heavy knot of relief loosened in Caroline’s stomach. She had expected a man with his wealth and power to have a revolving door of women in his penthouse. But this space was a sterile, isolated fortress.
She turned away from the closet and walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. The lights of Washington, D.C. glittered far below, looking like a distant, unreachable galaxy. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass.
Suddenly, the sound of running water stopped.
Caroline’s spine snapped straight. Her muscles instantly coiled tight. She turned around and stared at the bathroom door.
The low hum of a blow dryer vibrated through the walls for exactly two minutes. Then, silence.
The brass handle on the bathroom door slowly turned.
𝘛𝘳e𝗻𝘥𝗶𝘯g no𝘃е𝗅ѕ o𝗇 𝘨𝘢𝘭n𝗼𝗏еls.𝘤o𝗺
Caroline held her breath. Her fingers curled into tight fists at her sides.
The door opened, releasing a thick cloud of warm, fragrant steam into the cold bedroom.
Jarrod stepped out.
He was completely shirtless, his powerful physique cutting through the mist. A single, dark gray towel was wrapped low around his narrow waist. As a trained nurse, Caroline’s eyes instinctively locked onto his right side. The sight was a violent contrast to his otherwise perfect form—a massive, angry purple bruise bloomed across his right shoulder, centered around a jagged, healing surgical scar that looked raw against his tan skin.
Jarrod’s right arm was held in a rigid, protective angle against his abdomen. He wasn’t using it. Instead, he gripped a smaller towel with only his left hand, awkwardly patting the damp, jet-black hair at the back of his neck.
Drops of water clung to his broad shoulders, tracing the hard lines of his chest and the rigid ridges of his abdomen. Despite the severity of the injury, he moved with a disciplined, predatory grace that made the air in the room feel thin.
The intense, clean scent of pine body wash and hot, damp male skin flooded the room, hitting Caroline’s senses like a physical blow.
Jarrod stopped in the doorway. He used his left hand to toss the small towel onto a leather chair, his face tightening for a split second as the movement pulled at the damaged muscles of his shoulder. His dark gray eyes locked onto Caroline, noticing the way her professional gaze had momentarily lingered on the trauma of his wound.
He didn’t smile, but a dark, knowing glint flashed in his eyes.
“The bathroom is clear,” Jarrod said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in the quiet room. “There are fresh towels and a new bathrobe on the counter. Go wash the gala off.”
He walked cautiously toward the bed, his right arm remaining a frozen, immovable weight at his side.
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