I woke up the next morning with my head pounding. I was lying alone in the bed, the sheets smooth beside me as if no one ever touched them. The chair by the window was empty now, with his jacket gone.
For a long time, I just stared at the city outside the buildings, sharp and distant - like they belong to someone else's life. The events of the night before blur in my mind - half dream, half memory.
Then I saw it.
A folded piece of paper on the nightstand - cream-colored, his handwriting boldly written on it - dark and deliberate.
You owe me for last night.
My office. 9 a.m.
A chauffeur is waiting downstairs.
Adrian.
I sat there, the note trembling between my fingers. The scent of him still lingered in the air cedar, smoke, and something dangerous.
And for reasons I couldn't name, the regret in my chest felt heavier than the guilt as flashes from last night started flowing in.
The first thing I did after reading the note was freeze.
The paper suddenly felt too heavy in my hand, the words too sharp to belong in the calm of morning. Be at my office by 9 a.m. A chauffeur is waiting downstairs. No warmth. Just command.
The next second, I jumped on my feet not even giving a fuck about the sheets that slid off my body on the floor, the air had started biting cold against the back of my neck, as my pulse hammered in my ears, as I moved through the room, searching.
"Hello?" My voice cracked the silence. "Adrian?"
Nothing.
I checked the bathroom first, nothing. Just white marble counters gleaming, with towels folded like they were never used. His toothbrush was still there, still with his razor.
"Adrian," I tried again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
The closet was untouched. The faint scent of cedar still lingering there, threaded through every clothing in it like a ghost. I turned toward the private pool area, half expecting to see him leaning against the railing, the morning light painting silver on his skin. But there's no one. Just rippling water, catching the sun like glass.
He was gone.
Just like that, like a storm that passed in the night and left no trace but the air it moved through.
I returned to the bed, sat, and stared at the note again. It looked almost innocent lying there, but it felt like a dare. My chest tightened with slow small aches building beneath my ribs.
I should be scared. Any sane woman would be. You don't wake up in a stranger's suite with a note ordering you to meet him, after a steamy make out and after everything that's already fallen apart in your life.
What next?
I should take my things, and leave, go home, tell Blue everything. Let her try to fix this mess the way she fixes every other with her loud voice and half-baked plans that somehow always works.
But instead, I keep staring at those words. Be at my office by 9 a.m.
Something about the certainty of it - the bold, quiet authority pulled me. It was dangerous. Reckless. But after the week I've had, fear didn't bite the way it used to.
Fragments of the night returned in flashes: the bar's golden lights, his hand catching me before I fell, the weight of his gaze, the rough whisper of his voice. And then the.. the.. orgasm.
My stomach twisted.
God, I'm going to kill Blue.
If she hadn't left me there tipsy, heartbroken, and spiraling, I wouldn't be here now, standing barefoot in a suite that smells like him. My best friend, with all her "it's just one drink" and "you'll feel better, babe." I'd strangle her the second I got home. Or cry on her shoulder. Or just do both.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand. But it was dead, the black screen reflecting my face back at me. Pale, messy-haired, eyes swollen from sleep, my face definitely looks like it's been through something it can't name.
I plugged it into the charger beside the bed, but I didn't wait. My hands were shaking as I pulled on my clothes, the same ones from last night wrinkled, carrying the faintest trace of his cologne. My heels clicking softly against the marble floor as I moved, searching for something - anything that made sense.
Nothing did.
When I stepped out of the suite, the hallway was silent. Like the entire world was holding its breath.
I moved downstairs, through the wide glass doors of the lobby, and saw it immediately.
The black sleek car.
The chauffeur stood beside it, tall and perfectly still, his gloved hands clasped behind his back.
When he moved to open the car door, I noticed the smooth strength in his hands, the subtle command in his movements. This wasn't some hotel driver. He had the look of a fighter not a driver but I guess he was trained to do both.
"Miss Hale," he said, voice deep and polite, the faintest hint of an accent beneath it. "Mr. Adrian asked me to take you to his office."
I swallowed hard. "You know who I am?"
His eyes met mine briefly in the tinted reflection of the car. "We all do."
We all do? I swallowed with a gulp as the words sat heavy between us.
The car's interior smelt faintly of leather and smoke. I slid into the backseat, the door shutting behind me with a soft, expensive click. My mind kept spinning as the city rolled by outside. The glass towers, morning traffic, with sunlight glinting off windows like sharp metal. Everything looks too normal for what my life felt like right now.
I tried to piece together what happened last night, but the more I reached for it, the further some parts slipped away. All I could remember is the bar, the heat, his voice saying my name like it was something dangerous.
Immediately the car stopped, I stared up at the building before me that doesn't belong to this part of town. It's tall, modern, almost predatory in its design, all sharp lines and dark glass, rising into the morning light like it doesn't care who's looking.
The chauffeur opened my door. "This way, Miss."
Inside, the lobby was silent. Cool air hit my skin, carrying a faint scent of leather and rain. The receptionist looked up as I entered. Her expression didn't change; she didn't ask who I am.
"Top floor ma'am," she said quietly, gesturing to a private elevator. "He's expecting you."
He.
The word sank in my stomach.