She woke up naked in a stranger's bed.
For a second, she didn't move.
She didn't breathe.
The ceiling above her was unfamiliar—too high, too white, too perfect. The sheets beneath her were soft, expensive, and completely unforgiving. Her head throbbed like a warning siren, and her body ached in places she didn't want to think about.
Slowly, reality crept in.
This wasn't her room.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
She turned her head.
The man beside the bed was already dressed.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. A black suit tailored so sharply it looked like it could cut skin. His dark hair was neat, untouched by sleep. He stood near the window, adjusting his cufflinks as if this morning were no different from any other.
Cold. Controlled. Untouchable.
He didn't look at her.
Panic tightened her chest.
She grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to her collarbone, her fingers trembling. Her mind scrambled, trying to stitch together broken memories—music, dim lights, the taste of alcohol, the weight of his presence.
The sound of his voice shattered the silence.
"Last night was a mistake."
Flat. Calm. Final.
He walked to the table and placed a sleek black card on it. Then a thick envelope. The sound of it hitting the surface echoed louder than it should have.
"Take the money," he continued. "Forget it happened."
Her fingers clenched around the sheet.
A mistake.
That's what she was to him.
She pushed herself into a sitting position, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. "You don't even know my name," she said, her voice hoarse.
He finally looked at her.
Dark eyes. Sharp. Empty of warmth.
"I don't need to."
The words hit harder than a slap.
She swallowed, shame burning her throat. "So that's it? You sleep with someone and pay them to disappear?"
"Yes."
No hesitation. No apology.
Anger flared, sharp and sudden. "You think I did this for money?"
He studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he said, "I don't care why you did it."
The room felt smaller. Heavier.
She looked at the card on the table. No name she recognized. Just a number. Black. Clean. Powerful.
She had no idea who he was.
No idea he owned half the city skyline she could see through the window.
No idea he was a billionaire CEO who destroyed lives with signatures and silence.
She only knew that the way he looked at her made her feel invisible.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, ignoring the dizziness. The floor was cold beneath her feet. She gathered her clothes from the chair, hands shaking as she dressed.
"Leave the money," he said.
She laughed bitterly. "Don't worry. I don't want anything from you."
She slipped on her shoes, refusing to cry. Refusing to beg. Refusing to let him see how deeply his words had cut.
At the door, she paused.
"I will forget this night," she said quietly. "But not because you told me to."
Then she walked out.
The door closed with a soft click.
Sebastian Blackwood didn't move.
He stared at the door longer than he meant to.
Something about her departure left a faint, unfamiliar tension in his chest. He dismissed it immediately. Emotions were inefficient. Attachments were liabilities.
He turned away and picked up his phone.
"Clear my schedule," he said. "I'm going to the office."
Across the city, Isabella Laurent stepped out into the cold morning air.
The sunlight felt too bright. The street too loud. The world too normal for how wrong everything felt inside her.
She hugged her coat tighter around herself and walked away, telling herself one thing over and over:
It was just one night.
One mistake.
One stranger she would never see again.
She didn't know that fate had other plans.
She didn't know that one reckless night had already woven her life into his.
And she didn't know that in a few weeks, two pink lines would make forgetting impossible.