Amaya
The first thing I felt was light.
Too much of it.
It sliced in through the gap in my blackout curtains like it knew exactly where my head was.
I groaned and rolled away from it, only to feel the slow, deep pound at my temples. One thud, two thuds, three—and then the dry ache in my throat.
Right. The gin. The champagne.
And whatever was in that neon pink drink Hannah shoved into my hand at the rooftop afterparty, promising it was "dangerous in the best way."
I flopped onto my back, breathing through the nausea. My head felt like it was being clamped in a vice, and then—
"Oh, God."
The memories started forming, blurry at first, like a film reel I didn't remember pressing play on. The gala. The afterparty. Hannah's very detailed sex recap. The elevator.
Christian.
My eyes shot open.
I'd kissed Christian.
Not the other way around. Me. Not some accidental, drunken brush of lips. No. I had grabbed him, put my mouth on his, and—
Oh. Oh no.
I'd practically begged him to touch me.
My stomach sank into my knees. The humiliation hit harder than the hangover.
I sat up too fast. The room spun in a vicious tilt, forcing me to clutch the nightstand like it might stop the earth from moving.
He'd pushed me away.
I'd stood there, drunk and ridiculous, wanting him, and he'd looked at me like—
No. I couldn't even think about it without my stomach curling in on itself.
I yanked the comforter over my head, willing myself to disappear. My toes curled hard into the sheets. This was beyond embarrassing. This was the sort of thing that lived rent-free in your brain for the next thirty years, replaying at random moments to ruin perfectly good days.
The phone on the nightstand buzzed.
And buzzed again.
With a groan, I pulled the blanket down and squinted at the screen.
Hannah: Incoming video call.
Fantastic.
I debated ignoring it, but Hannah had the persistence of a debt collector. I swiped to answer.
Her face filled the screen, glowing like she'd slept for twelve hours and drank nothing stronger than herbal tea. Her hair was perfect. Her skin was perfect. She was smiling like she didn't have a care in the world.
"You look like hell," she said, way too pleased about it.
"Thanks." My voice sounded like it had been sanded down. "How are you not hungover?"
"Because I hydrate," she said primly. "And because I know my limits, unlike you."
I pulled the comforter tighter. "I hate you."
"No, you don't." She smirked. "So… did you have fun with your toys last night?"
My brain short-circuited. "What—?"
"Don't 'what' me. Babe, you were oozing arousal in that car. Like, radiating it. Dave probably went home and dunked himself in ice water."
I nearly choked. "Hannah!"
"What?!" she laughed. "You were all flushed and glassy-eyed. Don't act like I'm making this up."
I dragged a pillow over my face. "I'm never speaking again."
"Bummer," she said. "I like drunk Amaya better. That girl's unhinged. And bold. And—" she leaned closer to the camera— "did I mention bold?"
God.
I rolled onto my side, propping my head on my hand. "You're going to regret making me tell you things."
"Tell me anyway."
So I did. Against my better judgment, I told her about getting out of the elevator to find him in front of my apartment. About asking for help with my zipper. About his hands. About the kiss.
By the time I finished, Hannah was practically bouncing.
"Oh my GOD. This is everything. I cannot wait for you two to get married. This is going to be nuclear-level sexual tension. Like, please don't be mad you didn't get any action last night. You'll get plenty soon enough."
"Stop."
"In a month, to be precise."
That made my stomach drop.
I'd somehow managed to push the wedding out of my mind these past couple weeks, but hearing it out loud made it real again. In thirty days, I was marrying Christian.
I made a noise that was half groan and half plea for divine intervention.
"Anyway," Hannah went on, ignoring me, "I actually called to remind you that your first dress fitting's in four days."
I groaned again, louder. "Why do you hate me?"
"I don't," she said sweetly. "I'm trying to make sure you get married to that man as soon as possible, so you can," she waggled her brows "finally get laid. Properly laid. Not by something with batteries."
"I regret telling you anything," I muttered.
She laughed. "Too late. Oh! Did you see the press coverage from last night?"
My stomach dipped. "No…"
"They're obsessed with you. Obsessed. You were everywhere last night. Headlines, Instagram stories, gossip blogs—'Amaya Devreaux stuns in midnight silk at Women in Power Gala.'"
I rolled my eyes. "Lovely."
"And your ring got its own close-up. Again."
"Of course it did." The thing was practically a blood diamond in size.
"Well, i got to go. I'll call you later to check in. Love youuuu!" she sang, and ended the call.
Silence filled the room, except for the dull roar in my skull.
I lay there for maybe a full minute, staring at the ceiling, trying to convince myself to move. Wedding. Headlines. Meetings. Ugh.
A faint knock echoed through the apartment. I frowned, holding still, unsure if I imagined it.
Nothing.
Then, three short knocks, louder this time.
Groaning, I dragged myself upright and shuffled to the front door, robe tied loosely at my waist. Every step sent another pulse through my skull.
When I opened it, a man in a black cap and insulated delivery bag stood there.
"Uh, Ms. Amaya?"
"That's me."
"Delivery for you." He handed me a neatly packed brown paper bag with a sleek black envelope taped to the top.
I frowned. "I didn't order—"
But he was already heading back toward the elevator.
Back in the kitchen, I pulled the envelope free. Inside was a small cream card. Four words, sharp and deliberate:
Painkillers are for the hangover. Consider this a public service. —CK.
Heat shot straight up my neck.
I unpacked the bag—croissants still warm, an omelet in a sleek container, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and two painkillers in a tiny plastic cup.
My thumb hovered over my phone before I gave in and typed:
Thank you.
Three dots appeared immediately. My stomach did a ridiculous little lurch. Then, just as suddenly, the dots vanished.
I stared at the screen, and waited. Nothing.
"Asshole," I muttered, shoving my phone face-down on the counter.
I bit into a croissant with more force than necessary, like the buttery pastry could erase the memory of last night or my own humiliation.