Sophia's POV
The elevator doors opened directly into his penthouse.
Of course they did. Because normal doors were apparently too ordinary for mysterious strangers who kissed like sin and looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered in the world.
Wow, I breathed, stepping inside.
Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased Manhattan glittering below us like a jewelry box. We were so high up that the city looked fake, like a painting instead of reality.
Drink? he asked, heading toward a bar that probably cost more than my entire year's salary.
Had. Past tense. Because I didn't have a salary anymore.
Yes, I said quickly, pushing away thoughts of my ruined life. Definitely yes.
He poured two glasses of amber liquid—the expensive kind that came in crystal decanters instead of bottles.
I took mine and sipped. Smooth. Dangerously smooth.
So, I said, because the silence felt too heavy with promise. Do you bring a lot of crying women in wedding dresses to your penthouse?
His mouth twitched. You're my first.
Lucky me.
Lucky us, he corrected, his gray eyes intense on mine.
We stood three feet apart, the air between us crackling with electricity. I should feel nervous. Should feel scared about being alone with a stranger whose name I didn't even know.
Instead, I felt powerful.
This man—this gorgeous, dangerous stranger—wanted me. Not Perfect Sophia who followed all the rules. Not Obedient Sophia who made everyone proud. Just me. Messy, broken, reckless me.
What's your favorite food? I asked suddenly.
He blinked, surprised. What?
Favorite food. If you could only eat one thing for the rest of your life, what would it be?
A slow smile curved his lips. Pizza. The greasy kind from corner shops at 2 AM.
I laughed. Really? Mr. Fancy Penthouse likes cheap pizza?
The best things in life are rarely the expensive ones. His eyes traveled over me slowly. Present company excluded.
Heat flooded my cheeks. Smooth.
I try. He took a sip of his drink. Your turn. Favorite food?
Dumplings. My mom used to make them every Sunday before she died. The words slipped out before I could stop them.
His expression softened. How old were you?
Fifteen. Cancer. It was fast. I downed the rest of my drink. Your turn. Worst movie you've ever seen?
He let me change the subject without comment. Any romantic comedy where the guy does some grand gesture and the girl forgives everything.
Ouch. Bitter?
Realistic. Grand gestures don't fix broken trust.
Something about the way he said it told me he was speaking from experience.
Agreed, I said quietly. My ex proposed on a yacht at sunset. Very grand. Very romantic. Also very fake, apparently.
Then he's an idiot.
He's a lot of things. Idiot is probably the nicest.
The stranger crossed the space between us and took my empty glass. His fingers brushed mine, and electricity shot up my arm.
You know what I think? he said, his voice low.
What?
I think you spent your whole life being what everyone else wanted. The perfect daughter. The perfect fiancée. The perfect employee. He set our glasses aside and stepped closer. Tonight, be imperfect. Be selfish. Be exactly what you want to be.
His hand cupped my face, thumb brushing my cheek.
And what if I don't know what I want? I whispered.
Then we'll figure it out together.
He leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull away. I didn't.
When his lips met mine, the world disappeared.
This kiss was different from the one in the cab—deeper, hungrier, full of promises and danger. His hands tangled in my hair. My fingers gripped his jacket.
We broke apart, both breathing hard.
Are you sure? he asked, gray eyes searching mine. Because once we cross this line—
I kissed him instead of answering.
Some questions didn't need words.
His control snapped. One moment we were standing by the windows, the next he'd lifted me, my legs wrapped around his waist as he carried me through the penthouse.
I should feel embarrassed. Should feel shy.
Instead, I felt alive.
For twenty-seven years, I'd been careful. Controlled. Perfect.
Tonight, I was fire.
We fell onto his bed in a tangle of limbs and desperate hands. My engagement dress—the stupid white gown I'd spent three months choosing—ended up on the floor in a wrinkled heap.
Good. Let it be ruined. Let everything from my old life be destroyed.
Beautiful, he murmured against my skin. So damn beautiful.
No one had ever looked at me the way he did—like I was treasure and temptation and everything he'd been searching for.
Marcus had looked at me like I was useful. My father looked at me like I was disappointing. Vanessa looked at me like I was competition.
This stranger looked at me like I was worth something.
The city lights glittered below us as we lost ourselves in each other. It was reckless and wild and nothing like the careful, planned life I'd always lived.
It was perfect.
Hours later—or maybe minutes, time had lost all meaning—I lay in his arms, my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.
No regrets? he asked quietly.
None. I traced patterns on his skin. You?
Best terrible decision I've ever made.
I smiled against his chest.
We didn't talk about tomorrow. Didn't exchange numbers or make promises. This was one night. One perfect, reckless night to forget everything that hurt.
Eventually, exhaustion pulled me under. I fell asleep wrapped in a stranger's arms, feeling safer than I had in years.
Dawn light woke me.
I blinked, disoriented. Unfamiliar room. Unfamiliar bed. Unfamiliar
Memories crashed back. The engagement party. The bar. The stranger.
Oh God.
I turned my head carefully. He was still asleep beside me, one arm thrown over his face, breathing deep and even. In the morning light, he looked younger. Less dangerous. Almost peaceful.
My phone buzzed from somewhere on the floor, probably buried in my ruined dress. Reality calling.
I needed to leave. Needed to get out before this got complicated, before he woke up and we had to do the awkward morning-after conversation.
This was supposed to be one night. No names. No consequences.
Moving carefully, I slipped out of bed. My dress was indeed a wrinkled disaster, but I put it on anyway. My heels sat by the door. I grabbed them and my phone.
One last look at the stranger who'd made me feel powerful when I'd felt worthless.
Thank you, I whispered.
Then I left, riding the elevator down in bare feet, still wearing my engagement dress but feeling nothing like the broken girl who'd arrived last night.
Outside, Manhattan was just waking up. I hailed a cab and gave Maya's address.
My phone had sixty-two missed calls. Countless texts. A voicemail from my father that I deleted without listening.
But there was also a text from an unknown number: Emergency board meeting at Chen Industries. 9 AM. Your attendance is required. —Robert Wellington
My stomach dropped.
Marcus's father. The man who'd orchestrated my public humiliation. The man who'd just fired me.
Why would he want me at a board meeting?
The cab pulled up to Maya's apartment building. I paid and got out, my mind racing.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
My phone buzzed again. This time, a news alert: BREAKING: Chen Industries Under Federal Investigation for Fraud. CEO Victor Chen's Daughter Implicated.
The world tilted.
Implicated. They were saying I was involved in fraud.
My hands shook as I opened the article. There were photos—me and my father at company events, me at my desk, me signing documents.
Documents I'd signed because my father asked me to. Documents I'd trusted were legitimate.
Sources close to the investigation claim Sophia Chen was instrumental in hiding illegal transactions. Authorities expect to file charges within the week.
This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real.
I stumbled into Maya's building, barely making it to her door before my legs gave out.
The stranger's words echoed in my head: Be imperfect. Be selfish. Be exactly what you want to be.
I'd wanted one night of freedom. One night of reckless abandon.
Instead, I'd woken up to find my entire life burning down around me.
And I had no idea how to stop it.