Ava threw on a coat, jumped out of bed, and flicked on the lights.
The harsh glare instantly illuminated every corner of the room, leaving no shadows to hide in.
Panting, Ava finally got a good look at the man who had just tried to assault her—he was stocky, with rough features, dark skin weathered from years of labor, and a local accent thick enough to cut through steel.
A black handgun was pressed firmly against the back of his head.
The man holding it had a deep tan, a close-cropped haircut, and sharp, intense eyes. He wore a sleek black jacket, his tall, lean frame exuding quiet authority.
It was Ethan Grant.
Ava quickly pulled her coat tighter, buttoning it up as she pushed her messy hair behind her ears. Once she looked presentable again, she asked breathlessly, "Mr. Grant? What are you doing here?"
"Meeting a client," Ethan replied.
"Here?" she blinked. "At this place?"
