I gently opened my eyes, wincing as a piercing light sliced through
the haze. I attempted to sit up, but the room spun violently, forcing me to collapse back onto the bed.
"Not so fast," a voice murmured, warm and steady. A hand rested lightly on my shoulder. "Move slowly."
As my vision cleared, I realized this wasn't my room. I took in the surroundings: the bed sprawled before me was enormous, draped in a lavish silk and cotton duvet that shimmered faintly. The high, tufted headboard of dark leather loomed above me, commanding attention.
The walls, a deep charcoal, absorbed the light from an elegant recessed fixture, casting a soft glow that played across the room's meticulously arranged decor. On either side of the bed stood modern nightstands of polished mahogany, each topped with a minimalist brass lamp. A leather-bound journal, a sleek watch, and a few carefully arranged books rested on them, their spines neatly aligned.
Opposite the bed, a large flat-screen television was mounted into a sleek dark wood panel. Beneath it, a low-profile media console housed an array of high-end gadgets and a curated selection of fine spirits and cigars.
In one corner, a pair of deep navy armchairs faced each other around a glass-topped table, positioned on a contemporary rug with subtle geometric patterns. The heavy, dark curtains that framed the floor-to-ceiling windows were drawn aside, revealing a sweeping view of the city skyline.
The rich hardwood floor gleamed underfoot, with a few strategically placed rugs adding warmth. A small, impeccably organized home office occupied another corner, featuring a sleek desk and a high-back executive chair. Framed art pieces and photographs adorned the walls, offering a glimpse into Graham's personal world.
The room exuded a refined sophistication, its clean lines and luxurious materials speaking volumes about Graham's taste. Every detail, from the polished furniture to the carefully chosen decor, reflected an air of controlled elegance and understated opulence.
I blinked slowly, the light piercing through my eyelids and forcing me to squint. As I tried to sit up, the room tilted and swayed, pulling me back down onto the bed.
"Not so fast," Graham murmured gently. A hand, warm and steady, rested on my arm. I turned my head and met Graham's eyes—intense and unreadable.
The realization struck me with a jolt: this wasn't my bed. I took in the room's details with a sluggish, but curious gaze. Charcoal walls framed the space, their deep hue contrasting with the soft, ambient light from the elegant fixture above. My focus drifted to the king-sized bed with its dark leather tufted headboard, the silk and cotton bedding arranged in luxurious layers of muted greys and deep blues.
Graham moved closer, his presence commanding. He reached out and gently brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary. The touch was both tender and electrifying, sending a shiver down my spine. He was so close that I could feel the warmth of his breath mingling with mine.
"What's going on?" I managed to ask, my voice unsteady as I looked directly at him.
"You were talking in your sleep," Graham said, his tone calm but detached.
"That doesn't answer my question," I replied urgently.
Graham raised his hands defensively, as if to ward off an attack. "You were drugged last night," he explained, his voice low and steady. "Or at least you said you were. Based on what I saw., I would say I would agree with you. You're lucky it started affecting you while you were talking to me."
I glanced down and saw the glint of my dress from the night before, its fabric tangled around me. Panic surged through me, but I forced myself to breathe deeply. Looking back at Graham, I noticed a flicker of hurt in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual impassive demeanor.
"So, you brought me back to your house?" I asked, struggling to sit up. The effort felt like wading through molasses, my limbs heavy and uncooperative.
Graham rose from the bed with a fluid grace, his presence commanding. "Please, I do bad things, but when I'm with a woman, I want to make her remember," he said, a half-smile playing on his lips. He glanced at the bed with a mockingly playful look. "Think of it like a jungle gym. Everyone needs to play."
"Gross," I muttered, pushing the sheets away from my legs.
"I wash them, of course," he chuckled, but his laughter quickly turned icy. "I'm many things, but a rapist isn't one of them." Graham picked up a bowl from beside the bed and moved with a purposeful stride.
"What's that?" I asked, eyeing the bowl with suspicion.
"Your skin was burning up. I put a cold compress on you last night to keep your temperature down," he explained, his voice softening.
"You stayed up with me all night? You didn't have to do that," I said, surprised.
"What are these?" he asked, his fingertips brushing the thin scar on my arm, shoulder, and cheek changing the subject. His touch was electric, sending a shiver down my spine as his fingers traced a slow, deliberate path down to my shoulder. There, he lingered on the dark scar, a stark reminder of the time I was attacked.
"That's a stab wound," he commented, his eyes locking onto mine as his fingers gently caressed the scar. The scar was a deep, jagged line, slightly raised and darker than the surrounding skin, a testament to the violence that caused it. His touch was both soft and firm, igniting a fire within me. My breath hitched, and my skin tingled under his hand.
I caught his hand, my fingers curling around his as I held his gaze. His eyes were so intense, so filled with an unspoken desire, that I trembled under his touch. The air between us was charged with a magnetic pull, and I could feel every beat of my heart pounding in my chest.
He sat closer, his presence overwhelming, his breath warm against my skin. His fingers continued their slow, tantalizing journey across my scar, the sensation both soothing and arousing. My pulse quickened, and I could feel the heat rising within me, spreading through my body like wildfire.
His other hand moved to my waist, drawing me closer until there was barely any space between us. The tension was palpable, each moment stretching into eternity as we stood there, suspended on the brink of something powerful and undeniable.
His touch moved lower, tracing the path of the third scar just below my right breast. This scar was the most significant, a jagged reminder of the knife that had torn through my flesh. It was a rough, uneven line, slightly puckered at the edges, and more pronounced than the others. The sensation of his fingers grazing this scar was almost too much to bear, a heady mix of pain and pleasure that left me breathless. His eyes never left mine, their intensity searing into my soul.
I trembled, the magnetic pull between us irresistible. Our faces were mere inches apart, and the warmth of his breath brushed against my skin like a tantalizing whisper. Heat radiated from his body, filling the space between us with a palpable intensity that made my pulse race and my skin buzz with anticipation. Every slight shift in his proximity felt like a jolt of electricity, drawing me deeper into a current of desire.
My heart pounded with a frantic rhythm, matching the charged atmosphere around us. I had never felt such a profound connection—one that seemed to transcend reason and captivate me completely. The magnetic pull was overwhelming, a siren's call that promised both exhilaration and surrender.
Arousal surged through me, a raw, primal urge that left me feeling like an animal in heat. I craved the roughness of his touch, the way his hands would feel on my bare skin. The desire to breathe him in, to close the distance between us, was nearly consuming. I could barely contain the storm of emotions swirling inside, each one a testament to how deeply I wanted him.
But just as the tension reached its peak, I pulled away, the sudden absence of his warmth a jarring contrast to the heat we had shared. I had too.
"A story for another time," I managed to say, my voice betraying the flush that had spread across my cheeks. His smile was soft, almost wistful, as he withdrew his hand, leaving me with the lingering echo of his touch.
He stood up from the bed, the motion both graceful and deliberate, as if he were reluctant to break the spell.
"Until then, Bug." Graham walked toward the door, his movements smooth and deliberate. "Once you're feeling better, my driver will take you home."
"I can get myself home, thank you," I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. I tried to rise again, but the room spun and every movement was a struggle. "Wait, how did you know my nickname?"
"I answered your phone. Your boyfriend Evan called you like fifteen times. When I answered, he said that was your nickname. Your boyfriend was not happy." He pointed out.
"Not my boyfriend. Just a friend." I corrected it. I wasn't sure, but I felt like he relaxed at that comment.
He paused, his gaze drifting back to me. The warmth of his earlier touch still lingered, sending my heart racing despite my efforts to remain composed. Graham took a step closer, his face inches from mine. The scent of cedar and vanilla enveloped me, a heady mix that made my pulse quicken. The air between us crackled with tension, our breaths mingling as if drawn together by an invisible force. For a moment, it felt like we were teetering on the edge of something electric—a kiss that could dissolve our uncertainty. But with a final, lingering look, Graham turned and exited the room, leaving me grappling with the confusing rush of emotions he had stirred within me.
I pushed myself up, my legs trembling as I retrieved my shoes from the floor. Each step felt like a careful negotiation with gravity, the polished hardwood beneath my feet unfamiliar yet oddly grounding. The door loomed ahead, and I approached it cautiously, turning the handle with painstaking slowness. Peeking out, I found myself staring into what had to be the largest penthouse I'd ever seen.
As I crossed the expansive living room, my muttered curses filled the silence, growing louder with each step. "Shit, shit, shit, fuckitity fucking shit," I spat out, my frustration mounting. My eyes darted around the room as I tried to get a grip, only to spot a door. Relief flooded me as I swung it open—only to find another room. I groaned, stepping back into the living room. "How many damn rooms does this place have?!"
My heart pounded in my chest, and I spun around, trying to remember where I came from. I turned left, then right, then left again. My growing panic was only matched by the absurdity of my situation. I finally found a hallway that looked vaguely familiar and bolted toward it, nearly tripping over an ottoman. I spotted the elevator at last and made a beeline for it. I jabbed the button with a shaky finger, glaring at the metallic doors as if daring them not to open.
"Come on, come on. Come on," I muttered under my breath, anxiety bubbling up as I bounced on the balls of my feet, waiting for the doors to open.
The elevator chimed softly, its polished steel doors reflecting the muted lights of the lobby. I stood rigid, arms crossed, staring straight ahead as Graham's voice emerged from behind me, smooth as polished stone.
"Take the car," he said, close enough that his breath tickled the fine hairs on my neck.
I flinched, a jolt shooting through me as I spun halfway toward him. Goosebumps rippled up my arms, unbidden.
"I said I'm fine," I snapped, keeping my voice steady though my cheeks burned. I refused to meet his eyes, focusing instead on the dull gleam of the elevator's numbers. "I don't need a savior."
"I never said you did," Graham replied, his tone maddeningly calm. "But take the car. Please."
There it was—a faint crack in his cool veneer. Concern, perhaps, though it came so subtly it could've been my imagination.
I tightened my grip on my clutch, forcing myself to exhale evenly. "You're infuriating, you know that?"
"Stubborn," he said softly, his voice now tinged with amusement. "Fucking Christ, you're stubborn. Just take the car. It would make me feel better."
I turned abruptly, meeting his gaze head-on, my annoyance flaring. "Why? Why do you even care?"
Graham shrugged, the motion almost lazy. "I just do."
The elevator doors opened with a whisper, and I stepped inside, eager to put space between us. The polished interior seemed to swallow me whole as the doors began to glide shut. But before they could seal, Graham's arm shot out, halting their progress with a practiced, casual strength.
His hand followed, reaching out toward me. For one electrified second, I thought he might grab me—but instead, with an audacious grin, he tapped the tip of my nose lightly with his finger.
The playful gesture short-circuited my brain, leaving me gasping. Heat crept up my neck, the warmth of his touch lingering. My breath hitched, an involuntary reaction I despised.
"You interest me," he said, his voice dropping lower, each word deliberate. "That's all. Not many people do. I look forward to working with you."
"Wish I could say the same," I shot back, a lie that sounded weaker than I intended.
Graham smirked, his dark eyes alight with mischief. He withdrew his hand, stepping back as the doors slid closed. The air inside the elevator grew impossibly charged, his scent—woodsy and warm—clinging to me like a second skin.
By the time I stumbled into the car waiting outside, my pulse still hadn't settled. The driver, all clean lines and professional indifference, opened the door for me without a word. I slid onto the leather seat, sinking into its cool surface.
"Address?" he asked.
I rattled it off, my voice hoarse, my mind a thousand miles away. The city blurred outside the windows as the car carried me home.
The lights of my building cut through the dark as the car rolled to a stop. I stepped out, nodding my thanks before glancing back. The driver stayed put, ensuring I made it safely to the door.
The apartment was silent when I stepped inside, its stillness a welcome reprieve. "Layla?" I called out, but there was no reply.
She was probably at Marcus's place again. The thought drew an involuntary grin to my lips, a brief flicker of warmth cutting through the heaviness pressing on my chest. If anyone deserved happiness, it was Layla.
Most nights, Marcus ended up here anyway, his overnight bag a familiar sight by the door. He even chipped in on Layla's rent, slipping cash into the jar on the kitchen counter with a nonchalant shrug whenever she protested. Yet, he still kept his apartment—a carefully maintained retreat across town.
I suspected he was waiting for her to make the first move, to pack up her things and take the leap to his side of the city. But with our apartment just a block from the hospital, convenience won out for now. It was only a matter of time, though.
A pang of something—loss, maybe—tugged at me, but I shoved it aside. Layla deserved her happily ever after. The thought of her moving out was a problem for future me to worry about. For now, I'd enjoy the sound of her laughter echoing through these walls while it lasted.
Tybalt stood at my intrusion. He was in the same spot I left him. I scratched him on the back of his head, and he instantly started purring. He was the only man I needed right now.
"You are the only man I need, right?" I asked my cat. He looked at him and rubbed his head against my hand before yawning and jumping off the bed to explore for the night.
"I am talking to my cat now. That is where I am." I said to myself.
I kicked off my heels, leaving a trail of clothes across the living room floor as I made my way to the bathroom. Steam soon rose around me as I filled the tub, the water hot enough to sting.
Sliding into the bath, I let out a long, shuddering breath. The heat seeped into my skin, unraveling the tension coiled in my muscles. But my mind wouldn't quiet.
Images of Graham swam before me—the teasing glint in his eye, the maddening smirk, the unexpected softness in his touch. I closed my eyes, sinking deeper into the water.
The warmth of the bath ignited an ache within me, a craving that grew stronger with each passing second. My fingers danced along my skin, teasing and caressing before delving deeper into my desires. I couldn't help but imagine his hands on me, his body pressed against mine.
Lost in the fantasy of him, I gave in to the dangerous indulgence. His scent filled the room, his voice echoing in my ears as I quickened my movements. Every touch only fed the fire he had sparked until it consumed me entirely.
As I gasped and trembled in release, the bathwater cooled around me. But even as I sat there, breathless and spent, my mind was still consumed by thoughts of him.
I washed away any remaining traces of the night in the shower, but my body remained heated and restless. Wrapped in soft fabric, I crawled into bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast against my fevered skin.
It took a while for sleep to finally claim me, and even then, it was filled with memories of Graham's intoxicating smile and the scorching heat of his touch.
***
Bam, bam, bam. The sound reverberated through my skull, yanking me from sleep. My heart raced as I untangled myself from the covers, stumbling toward the bedroom door, half-blind with grogginess.
Layla stood in the hallway, her phone extended like a loaded weapon, her face flushed with fury.
She stormed into the hallway, her phone held tightly in her hand. The bright screen illuminated her face as she jabbed it towards me with each word. "I tried calling you," she barked, "but some guy answered. I was about to call Evan because I thought something had happened to you."
I shielded my eyes from the blinding light and glanced at my phone. fifteen missed calls from Evan and another ten from Layla. I felt a pang of guilt for not checking my phone sooner, but then remembered how caught up I was with the mysterious man from the club and felt a new wave of fear wash over me.
"What are you even—"
"Do you have any idea what went through my mind last night when some strange guy answered your phone?" she demanded, her words slicing through my haze.
I shoved her hand aside, brushing past her. "I left it in my bag, in the living room." My voice came out flat, the effort to match her energy too much for this hour.
Layla spun on her heel, following me as I grabbed my bag from the couch and fished out my phone. I waved it in the air like a white flag. "See? Found it."
"You ditched us," she snapped, her voice climbing. "No text, no call, nothing. Ronny was livid when you disappeared."
The name hit me like a slap, and my grip on the phone tightened. "Funny story about that—"
"No!" She raised a hand, cutting me off mid-sentence. "I don't want to hear it. I'm done trying to set you up. You're on your own from now on."
Her words ignited something in me, a slow burn that roared to life in an instant. My chest tightened, the heat climbing to my face.
"Do you really want to hear what a great guy Ronny was?" My voice cracked, the anger in it sharp and raw. "He handed me a drink that knocked me out cold in the club. So, you don't get to yell at me, Layla!"
She froze mid-step, her back still to me, every muscle in her body stiff.
The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. Her hand twitched at her side, but she didn't turn around.
"Normally," I continued, the words spilling out in a rush, "I let you say whatever the hell you want. But not this time."
Layla's head dropped slightly, the defiance draining from her shoulders, leaving only silence in its wake.
Her expression shifted, the hard edges of anger softening into something fragile. Layla turned back to me, her hands trembling slightly as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"I'm sorry," she said, her voice unsteady, her eyes darting over my face as if searching for unseen wounds. "Do you need to go to the hospital? We should go to the police."
"No," I replied firmly, crossing my arms as if to shield myself from her concern. "I'm fine. Nothing happened, and it's not like there's any proof now." My tone left no room for argument, though I could see the protest forming in her eyes.
I took a steadying breath, trying to push away the pounding in my head and the knot in my chest. I ticked off every point with each finger. "Look, let's break it down:
I met you and Marcus for drinks.
You introduced me to Ronny.
Ronny bought me my first drink.
You left to dance with Marcus
Then Ronny handed me a second drink.
I didn't check how it was made. Didn't question it.
Now, whatever was in it is long out of my system.
So, no evidence. No witnesses. Nothing actually happened. Case dismissed." I gave a hollow shrug, forcing the words out with an edge of finality. "No headache. No heartache."
Layla bit her lip, hesitating, and then she glanced away. "Truth time," she murmured, her voice almost a whisper. "He seemed nice, so we figured—" She trailed off, guilt carving deep lines into her face. "Please tell me you are going to at least tell Evan about this. You have to promise that, please."
I nodded my head, the weight of her confession settling heavily on my shoulders. "So, this is my dating life now?" I muttered, the bitterness in my tone sharper than I intended. "Introduced to strangers who—" I stopped myself, swallowing hard.
Layla flinched as if I'd slapped her, and I hated the way her face twisted with hurt. But the words had spilled out, jagged and raw, and I couldn't stop now. "Reduced to this?" My voice wavered, cracking like glass under pressure. I turned away, dragging a hand through my hair, the motion doing nothing to untangle the knot of shame tightening in my chest.
"I just…" My throat tightened, the rest of the words lodged somewhere deep. I exhaled, the breath shaky and uneven. "With Beau being back and everything… I just need to forget about last night."
Her silence pressed against me like a weight. Then, her fingers brushed my arm, tentative, a small olive branch. But I stepped back, avoiding her touch. Anger flickered across her face like a flame catching wind. Without a word, she turned and called out into her room.
"Marcus!"
He appeared almost instantly, his towering frame filling the doorway as if summoned by magic. His sharp gaze flicked between us, his body tense like a coiled spring.
"Beau is back?" Layla's voice cut through the air, brittle with disbelief. Marcus stiffened beside her, the room suddenly heavy with unspoken tension.
"He's been spotted," I said, my words clipped. "You know how this goes—he texts, disappears, reappears. Last time, he didn't even stick around. I doubt he'd come near me." I shrugged, feigning indifference. "Besides, everyone's looking for him."
"That doesn't matter, Bug," Marcus said, his voice steady but firm. "You're not going anywhere alone for the next couple of weeks. Non-negotiable."
I shook my head, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of my lips. "I have a case to work, Marcus."
Layla opened her mouth to argue, but I cut her off with a raised hand. "No," I said, my voice resolute. "I'm done living in fear. I'm not going to let him—or anyone else—control my life. I like my job. I want to do my job."
They exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between them, but neither said anything more. Still, their stiff posture told me they didn't agree.
Layla's voice softened, trembling just enough to betray her emotion. "I'm not going to argue with you," she said, her tone low and measured. "But please… just check in with me, okay? I can't—" Her voice broke, and she paused, swallowing hard. "I can't lose you again. You're my best friend, and I love you."
Her words hung in the air, raw and unguarded. I nodded, my chest tight. "Okay," I said quietly. It wasn't much, but it was enough to ease the tension in her shoulders, if only a little.
"Good." She responded.
"I just need to forget about last night and sleep for like a month," I said, my voice tinged with exhaustion.
"I feel like we should hug," she said, her voice wavering as she glanced away, clearly uncomfortable.
"I'm good," I replied, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach my eyes. "No touchy, please."
"Thank God," she said, her shoulders visibly relaxing as she let out a sigh of relief.
I looked at her seriously and took her lightly by the arm. "But no more blind dates. I don't know if Ronny drugged me or if it was someone else, but you may want to talk to your sister, Marcus."
I said as I moved past her into my room. "Layla, Marcus's a good guy, and I really like him for you, but Ronny?" I waved my hand up and down to demonstrate how I approved of her boyfriend. "But seriously? Ronny? Is that how you see me?"
She turned, her expression softening. "You're always alone, and I thought it might be nice for you to meet someone. But fair enough."
I turned to go into my room, but she caught my arm. I turned and as I looked at her face I realized she was really panicked. I smiled.
"We good?" she asked.
I nodded, then walked into my room with my phone. I shut the door without looking back. Collapsing onto my bed, I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing thoughts. But curiosity gnawed at me. I couldn't resist. I sat up, grabbed my laptop, and started typing.
I nodded at my best friend, then retreated to my room with my phone in hand. As I shut the door behind me, I could feel the weight of the world pressing down on my shoulders. My heart raced as I collapsed onto my bed, trying to calm my thoughts. But I couldn't resist the urge to know more about him. So, I sat up, grabbed my laptop, and started typing.
Soon, I was deep diving into his social media profiles, scrolling through countless photos and posts. Every image and caption revealed fragments of a life filled with luxury, danger, and allure - the kind of lifestyle that only someone like Ben could lead. He posed with celebrities, influential figures, and stunning women, exuding a magnetic charm that drew people in.
But as I delved deeper, I stumbled upon a second Facebook page - one that looked entirely different from his flashy profile. A photo caught my eye immediately - it was of a little girl with brown hair and large green eyes. It matched the photo that was sitting on my desk at work. Curiosity piqued, I clicked on the page and discovered a whole new side to Ben. This was the personal life of a doting father - one who loved spending time with his daughter and indulging in dorky dad activities. It seemed like he had two completely separate lives - one for work and one for family. That wasn't so crazy, but that could mean a lot of things.
I could not help myself. I typed in Graham's name into her computer's search engine. A series of articles popped up. Cases of him taking down a local corrupt politician and a huge mob case. He has made it his personal mission to make the town a good place to live. It even looks like he was thinking about a run for governor, but the next series of articles explain why. They were all about a prominent district attorney with a crazy brother who talks and attacks women.