Plan B

For the next forty-eight hours, I became one with my bed.

No calls. No outside world. Just me, a pile of blankets, and the crushing weight of humiliation.

That slap from Rhys wasn’t just a blow to the face. In so many ways, it was a slap across my entire life—one steeped in desperation, delusion, and pathetic longing. It forced me awake. It forced me to look back on everything I’d ever done to make him notice me, everything I did for a fantasy called “us” that had never truly existed.

God, where do I even begin?

Like the time he casually mentioned he liked girls with smooth, silky hair. That night, I ordered three bottles of the shampoo he’d once praised. My scalp broke out in hives. I smiled through the pain and said, “It’s fine—some allergic reactions are worth it.”

Or when he told me he was too busy with work to grab dinner, so I stayed up learning how to bake and brought him a box of pastries in the rain. He didn’t even open the door—just had the receptionist tell me, “Don’t bother next time. I don’t like sweets.”

Then there was that night at his friend’s dinner party. I forced down oysters—my most hated food—just to seem “graceful and agreeable.” I spent the entire night crouched over a toilet, writhing in pain until 3 a.m. He didn’t ask if I was okay. He laughed and said, “Can’t even handle seafood? That’s just dramatic.”

But the worst?

That time he quoted a line from The Godfather he liked. I stayed up all night reading film essays just to casually drop the quote at a party. I got it wrong. He corrected me in front of everyone, sneering, “Don’t pretend to like things you clearly don’t understand.”

And I laughed. I laughed and said, “You’ve got such a good memory.”

What a joke. I never realized I was never the person he wanted.

He never really saw me. To him, I was nothing more than a low-rent version of the “perfect and untouchable” Katherine. A cheap stand-in.

I wasn’t her, but I could offer him the faint illusion of having her again. That was all I was good for.

I buried my face in the pillow and laughed until I shook. Not because it was funny—but because the pain had gone too deep for tears.

Thankfully, after my parents delivered their final ultimatum two days ago, they hadn’t contacted me again.

A small part of me wondered—did Rhys intervene? Did he finally realize what he’d done?

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

And it didn’t stop ringing.

For a full five minutes.

I groaned into my pillow. Oh god. Social interaction.

Dragging my exhausted body to the door, I opened it.

Ivan Carlisle—my best friend and the only person who had the legal right to yell at me—stood on the other side, hands on hips. Then her eyes landed on my face.

Her expression froze. The light in her eyes dimmed. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I’m fine,” I said, trying to sound casual. She wasn’t buying it.

She reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Her jaw clenched.

Then—silence.

Not the awkward kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that comes right before something explodes.

“Who hit you?”

“Come inside,” I muttered quickly, trying not to draw the neighbors’ attention. That would be mortifying.

Ivan didn’t move. She gripped my arm and spoke through gritted teeth. “Mira. Who. Hit. You?”

As soon as the door clicked shut, I collapsed into her arms. My face buried in her sweater, and within seconds, the fabric was soaked.

She didn’t flinch. She just held me, her hand moving in calm, soothing circles across my back.

I didn’t know how long I cried. Long enough for my throat to burn and my nose to turn bright red like Rudolph. Eventually, I managed to force out a single word.

“Rhys.”

Ivan didn’t move.

Everyone in Sky City knew that name. Rhys Granger wasn’t the kind of man who needed to throw punches to destroy someone. One phone call to the right person, and your life would be over. Reputation, money, status—he had it all.

Every move he made was deliberate, timed to perfection—like the ticking of a Rolex. When he chose to go to war, he was a nobleman wielding cruelty like fine art, probably with a glass of aged Scotch in hand.

People called him arrogant. No one ever called him violent.

That’s why, when Ivan processed what I’d just said, I could practically hear the gears in her brain screaming in protest.

“No way,” she muttered under her breath, as if denying it out loud might somehow make it untrue. “Rhys? Your Rhys? He couldn’t have…”

I got it. I really did. Rhys was supposed to be the gentleman. The golden boy. The flawless, elegant, untouchable good guy.

“It was him,” I said quietly.

She exhaled sharply, then started rubbing my back again, this time slower. “Tell me what happened.”

I swallowed. “I was at his place. I, uh… accidentally broke a mug.”

Her entire body tensed. “Just a mug?”

I nodded.

Silence. Then she clenched her jaw and said, “I swear to God, if you tell me it was some priceless, hand-crafted, one-of-a-kind family heirloom—”

“It was Katherine’s mug.”

Ivan’s hand froze mid-pat.

Everything shifted. One second, she was my concerned best friend. The next, she was a woman plotting murder.

I grabbed her wrist before she could get ahold of something worse. “It’s over between Rhys and me.”

“Really?”

“Really. Even if the earth split in two and Sky City sank into the ocean, I wouldn’t marry him.”

That stopped her from storming out to commit homicide.

“Katherine. That venomous snake—” Ivan spat the name like it physically hurt her. “She’s not even here anymore and she’s still managing to wreck your life! And your parents? They just stand there watching! I swear, they could watch her light your house on fire and they’d hand her the matches. It’s unbelievable!”

I felt like a balloon someone had just popped—deflated, exhausted. That all-too-familiar ache settled deep in my chest. I knew some parents would always love their firstborn more. And there was nothing I could do about it.

“I’m sorry, Mira.”

Ivan sat down beside me and gave my head a firm push toward her shoulder. I pulled away and managed a weak smile. “Actually, I think it’s a good thing. At least I found out what kind of man he is before we got married. Better now than after the vows, right?”

She let out a long sigh, her eyes softening. “Mira, you know no matter what happens, I’ve got your back.”

Right then, my stomach growled loud enough to interrupt the moment. Loudly.

Like a magician, Ivan reached behind her and pulled out a takeout bag, giving me a look that practically screamed: I knew you’d be like this.

I wanted to hug her, but I was too busy eating like a ravenous little goblin.

After dinner, she pushed me into the bedroom and went off to clean up. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, drained and overwhelmed. What now?

Through the half-open door, I heard her on the phone. I didn’t catch every word, but the ones I did hear… were iconic.

“A pile of shit.”

“Total fucking psycho.”

“Oh, you think that’s bad? Wait till I tell you what this violent bastard actually did—”

She was probably talking to Zane Hasterton. And unlike Rhys, Zane would never raise a hand to her.

The way Ivan so instantly, so fiercely chose me—without hesitation, without question—made my throat tighten. She believed me. No one else did. But she did.

This wasn’t something she did lightly. Rhys’s family sat at the very top of the food chain—untouchable. And I had no doubt her parents wouldn’t be thrilled to see her go up against them.

I curled deeper under the blanket and let out a slow breath.

Why couldn’t my parents love me like that?

Ever since their favorite daughter Houdini’d her way out of their master plan, I became Plan B. But that didn’t mean they forgave my existence.

Let’s be honest: the only reason they’d stopped actively berating me was because I got engaged to Rhys. That little arrangement somehow elevated me from “irreparable family disgrace” to “potential saving grace.”

Part of the reason I agreed to the engagement—and I know how pathetic this sounds—was because I thought maybe I could finally get something Katherine had: a sliver of parental affection. A crumb of approval.

But now that the engagement was off?

I was disposable again.

Last I heard, they were boxing up my things, ready to ship me off to some remote jungle where I’d spend the rest of my life befriending anacondas and repenting for my sins.

They were absolutely capable of that.

I groaned into my pillow. What the hell do I do now?

Unless… I married someone more powerful than Rhys.

The idea was so ridiculous I snorted. Right. Because billionaires are just wandering around Sky City hoping to marry a 23-year-old orphan with no patience for their bullshit.

And yet—

A face flashed in my mind.

Three days ago. My new neighbor.

I remembered, quite inappropriately, thinking I wouldn’t mind being alone with him in his apartment where he could do all sorts of rated-R things to me.

I shook my head, quickly banishing the thought. I didn’t even know his name. Just that he had the kind of aura that could slice a person in half.

No. Way too dangerous.

I groaned again.

If I hadn’t broken that stupid mug, everything might’ve been okay.

But it wasn’t. And it’s not. And there’s no going back.

Fuck! Why am I the one trying to fix this when I wasn’t even the one who messed it up?! I sat up—and bam, the door burst open.

Ivan marched in. “Sleep is just going to make you feel worse. We’re getting up, and we’re going to find a dick worth loving—one that’s better than Rhys’s.”

WHAT?!

While I gaped, she had already changed me into a new outfit.

Just like that, we were off to Sky City’s most exclusive club—members only.

Rebound Night

“Is this really necessary?” I stood at the end of the line, shivering, tugging desperately at the hem of my tragically short skirt. I could practically feel it—if I opened my mouth to speak, my underwear would be on full display.

“Sweetheart, we paid a fortune to get into this place. Of course we’re going all kill. Do you not get it?” Ivanna declared like a mafia queen, standing tall against the icy wind in her five-inch heels without the slightest trace of fear.

“But isn’t this a little too—” I didn’t even get to finish before a brutal gust of wind slapped me across the face like it had a personal vendetta. I immediately yanked up the zipper of my puffer jacket and curled into myself like a frozen shrimp.

Ivanna let out a dramatic groan. “Mira, come on. We’re going to a bar, not an Arctic expedition.”

“I’m just glad I won’t be hospitalized for hypothermia tonight, thanks,” I snapped back.

She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might fall out of her head, gave me a once-over full of disappointment—but said nothing more. Small victory. My puffer jacket was safe—for now.

I’d thought we’d have to wait in line like everyone else. That was the whole reason I wore this thermal fortress of a coat. But clearly, I had underestimated Ivanna.

She had zero plans to follow the rules.

With the ease of someone who’d done this a thousand times, she slipped a rolled-up bill into the bouncer’s hand, her palm casually grazing his rock-hard chest like a Bond girl who’d forgotten her martini.

Ten seconds. That’s all it took. We were in.

Ivanna was the kind of beautiful that made men forget protocol—and ethics—in an instant.

And just like that, we breezed into Roxanne.

The place was thick with heat, perfume, and the effervescent scent of champagne. I ripped off my coat the second we stepped inside, only to be met with a “are-you-trying-to-embarrass-me?” glare from Ivanna.

She handed her coat off to a passing server with a flick of her fingers, like she’d personally hired the man. Regal, effortless, born for this.

I tried to copy her moves. Failed miserably. Nearly dropped my purse and stumbled like a hamster who’d just woken up from a freezer nap.

Graceful? No. I looked like roadkill in Gucci heels.

If I hadn’t known each cocktail here cost about the same as my checking account balance, I might’ve even convinced myself I was pulling it off.

“Jesus Christ!” I gasped, eyes glued to the menu like it had just insulted my entire bloodline.

Ivanna gave me a sideways glance and scoffed. “Relax. Tonight’s on me.”

I exhaled with something dangerously close to gratitude. Considering I’d nearly broken off an engagement, risked being exiled to some remote tropical island by my parents, and needed to budget for anti-snake spray, I needed all the charity I could get.

Price tags aside, the view was elite: ambitious young actors, outrageously good-looking models, and a legion of finance bros who looked like they gave TED talks while wearing Burberry.

It was a glittering buffet of vanity and hormones, wrapped in velvet lighting and the illusion of power.

We found a table near the bar and hadn’t even ordered drinks when a bartender locked eyes on us.

Well. He was hard to miss—tall, sculpted features, sleeves rolled to the elbows just enough to show off well-trained forearms.

He shouldn’t be mixing drinks—he should be in the Louvre. Or at the very least starring in Dior’s newest fragrance campaign. Maybe that’s why this club was so expensive: even the staff had to be perfect.

“Two 75s, French brandy,”

Before I could even locate the cheapest drink on the menu, Ivanna had already tossed her order at the bartender. “Make it strong.”

And of course, she didn’t forget to flash her signature smile—the one that balanced perfectly between sexy and innocent, chin tilted just enough to say “Oops, didn’t mean to flirt”.

The bartender reached effortlessly for the gin, giving her a half-smile. “Rough night?”

“More like an engagement-level disaster,” she said, casually pointing her thumb at me. “And it’s wrapping up real soon.”

I glanced at her. “Thrilled that my personal life is now public broadcast.”

She patted my hand with mock sympathy. “Sweetie, this place runs on romantic catastrophes. Without bad decisions, no one would be buying drinks.”

Then she turned away and melted into the crowd, flipping into Social Queen Mode like someone had hit a switch.

In under ten seconds, she completed a visual sweep—like a hawk zeroing in on prey—before spinning back around and pointing her perfectly manicured finger toward the edge of the dance floor.

“Okay, listen. You need a rebound. Exhibit A: Six-foot-two, hair neater than your ex-fiancé’s moral compass, shirt unbuttoned just enough to scream sexy without slipping into cheap. He either owns a yacht or, at the very least, a VIP card.”

I shook my head. “Nope.”

Her eyes flicked to a new direction. “Exhibit B: struggling musician. Dressed like payday hasn’t happened yet, but he’s hot enough you’d forgive him. You’d fund his next album and still sleep like a baby.”

“Pass.”

She sighed, then pointed again. “Fine. Exhibit C: total dad vibes—but the good kind. Like ‘books your doctor’s appointment and your breakfast’ dad, not ‘calls the waitress ‘sweetheart’ and thinks climate change is a myth’ dad.”

I groaned into my hands. “Ivanna, please.”

She didn’t back down. “Mira, you cannot sit here like a decorative wall gecko. Tonight is about rebooting your life, not stitching up emotional wounds.”

Just as she geared up for a fourth round of rebound recommendations, she suddenly froze. It was like someone had hit mute on her entire system.

Then, far too casually, she said, “Hey, want to hit the bathroom?”

I narrowed my eyes. “No?”

“…Or maybe let’s move tables? The vibe here’s weird.” Her smile was tight, and her voice cracked like a pair of worn-out heels.

Weird vibe? We’d only been sitting for ten minutes, and we just ordered drinks. By Ivanna’s standards, we hadn’t even made it past the opening credits.

Then I followed her gaze.

A half-private booth.

Rhys.

He had his arm draped around a woman. Her head rested on his shoulder, makeup flawless, smile polished and effortless.

I didn’t need more details.

That face—I would never forget it.

Four years ago, a girl vanished under mysterious circumstances. I, in all my naive glory, believed she had simply “stepped aside,” choosing to selflessly walk away from a future with Rhys.

And now, here was Katherine—perched on my ex-fiancé’s lap, locked in a pose so intimate it looked less like a casual bar date and more like a budget version of Fifty Shades of Grey.

I had told myself I was over it. Over him. We’d broken up. It was done. Time to move on.

Until I heard what came next.

“Honestly, I didn’t think she’d fall apart over a coffee mug.”

Katherine’s voice was soft, full of false pity—the kind that sounded like she’d just killed someone and was now gently tucking a blanket over the body.

She gently swirled the wine in her glass, her lips curling into a near-perfect smile. “Of course I put that mug somewhere obvious. I wanted her to notice. After all, she still doesn’t know you’ve been seeing me behind her back. It was time she caught a little hint, wasn’t it?”

She looked up at Rhys, eyes glowing with admiration. “Honestly though, darling, your performance was spot-on. Even I almost believed you were worried she’d find out about us, instead of just helping me pull off the scene. She’s so stupid—of course she thought you were upset about the mug, not terrified of exposing your affair.”

Rhys chuckled softly, smug and relaxed. “I had to act like I cared. She spends every day trying to be the perfect girlfriend. If she found out all her effort still couldn’t compete with you, she’d lose it.”

Katherine laughed under her breath and patted his chest. “Don’t worry. Knowing Mira, she’s probably still scrambling to fix things. She’s the type who always believes that if she just tries hard enough, people will finally see her worth.”

Her laugh turned soft, laced with pity so sharp it felt like a blade. “But the harder she tries, the more pathetic she looks. And me? I just ‘happened’ to return home. Her parents don’t know a thing. They didn’t even get the chance to stop me. Tomorrow, I’ll be seeing them in broad daylight—because she gave up the engagement herself, and you, dear, are blameless.”

Katherine leaned back with a triumphant sigh. “Isn’t this the best ending? I never gave up on you. I was just waiting for her to step aside.”

Rhys nodded slowly, a small smirk on his lips. “You’re right. You always are.”

A loud roar filled my ears, and my heartbeat pounded against my skull like a war drum.

Ivanna must’ve been saying something—pleading with me to stay calm, not to do anything stupid—but I didn’t hear a word.

I wasn’t the same Mira who swallowed her pride for praise anymore.

I slipped free from Ivanna’s grip and turned to the bartender. “Your best red. Put it on Rhys Granger’s tab.”

The bartender—bless his beautiful, rule-breaking soul—didn’t even flinch. He handed me the bottle like I’d just ordered mineral water.

With the bottle in hand, I had a mission. A singular, burning purpose.

The bouncer moved to stop me, but one look at my face—like a vengeful goddess straight from hell—made him wisely back off, hands raised in surrender.

I marched straight toward Rhys and Katherine. They were lip-locked in some dramatic, second-rate soap opera make-out scene.

I raised the bottle—and smashed it, with all my strength.

Glass shattered with a sharp crack, spraying across the table. Rhys’s forehead split instantly, a trail of blood beginning to drip down between his brows.

Katherine screamed and leapt off his lap. “Mirabelle?! Are you insane?! What are you doing here?!”

She scrambled to find a lie, panic rising in her voice. “You’re misunderstanding, it’s not what you think—”

Rhys cut her off, his hand gripping her arm, his gaze dark and frigid. “Don’t bother explaining, Katherine. It doesn’t matter. My parents will take your side, no matter what. We’re just correcting an old mistake.”

Katherine’s panic twisted into smugness in an instant. She curled into his side with sickening sweetness and cooed, “Oh, honey, your head’s bleeding. We have to get to the hospital.”

Before I could say anything, Ivanna rushed to my side, fury radiating from every pore. She raised her hand, ready to slap Katherine straight back to whatever pit she'd crawled out of. “You disgusting, two-faced bitch—!”

I grabbed her wrist, steady and cold. “Ivanna, let them go. If they stay here one more second, I might lose my appetite permanently.”

I locked eyes with Katherine’s smug little face and raised my voice deliberately. “After all, the theme of this place is premium taste, not some clearance aisle for secondhand trash.”

Katherine’s smile froze on her lips. Rhys’s face darkened, but they had no chance to respond.

Ivanna, emboldened, lifted her chin and sneered at the bouncers. “Well? What are you waiting for? Kindly escort these two walking health code violations off the premises.”

Key Guy

As soon as they were gone, Ivanna dragged me out of the club.

Damn it. I hated that Katherine had predicted every single thought running through my mind.

Yes, I had still been considering salvaging my relationship with Rhys.

But now? The truth was right there, unmistakable and raw—they’d been sleeping together behind my back all along. And me? I was just the foolish, unnecessary third wheel in their twisted little story.

What I couldn’t wrap my head around was—why had Katherine faked her disappearance four years ago? What exactly had she been hiding? And why come back now?

My eyes stung. I tilted my head toward the sky, forcing the tears back.

Fine. Katherine’s back. Perfect. Now they could all reunite like a happy little four-piece family™, and I… I was finally free.

“Mira… I’m so sorry. I had no idea they’d be there tonight. I didn’t even know Katherine was back.” Ivanna’s eyes were full of regret.

I gave a bitter laugh and shook my head. “Neither did I. But I heard it loud and clear—they’ve been screwing around for a while. To them, I was just in the way.”

“Those goddamn assholes!” Ivanna hissed through clenched teeth. “You should tell your parents. Let them know Katherine’s not the perfect angel they think she is. What about Rhys’s parents? No way they’ll tolerate a scandal like this.”

I was quiet for a moment. Ivanna had a point—Rhys’s parents were the only people who had supported me. But he was their son. They wouldn’t choose me over him. Not in the end.

And my parents? I let out a breath, heavy and tired. “You know better than anyone—they only care about Katherine. No matter what I do, I’ll never replace her.”

Ivanna grabbed my shoulders, worry darkening her gaze. “So what now? You’re just going to let them humiliate you?”

“Maybe.” My voice dropped to a whisper, a weariness weighing it down. “Maybe if I accept it, it’ll finally be over.”

Suddenly, Ivanna’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, brows knitting in frustration. “Mira, my agent just called. There’s a last-minute ad shoot—I have to go now. Can you get home on your own?”

I nodded, managing a faint smile. “Go. Don’t worry about me. I’ll call when I get back.”

After she left, I hailed a cab. Instinctively, I gave the driver my home address. But barely two minutes into the ride, a wave of suffocating pressure settled over me.

“No, wait,” I said quickly. “Take me to a bar. Any bar. Just… far away from Roxanne.”

The driver didn’t blink—clearly used to the erratic demands of Sky City’s broken-hearted.

We eventually pulled up outside some unfamiliar nightclub. Velvet ropes. A crowd of influencer-types wielding selfie sticks. I didn’t bother checking the name. I handed the bouncer some bills and strode inside.

Straight to the bar.

“Whiskey sour. Large. Keep them coming.”

“Ma’am, maybe you should slow down,” the bartender said gently, with concern.

I slammed my empty glass on the counter and shoved my card across. “Did I stutter? Top me off.”

The bartender sighed, but obliged.

“That guy’s right,” a smooth, magnetic voice murmured beside me. “Too much alcohol can impair cognitive function and judgment. Unless you want to wake up in a stranger’s bed tonight—”

I turned, irritated—then froze.

It was him.

The man from last night. My new neighbor. The one who’d handed me my keys with all the casual elegance of a Renaissance statue.

“Well, well. You again.” I raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at my lips. “You really can’t resist other people’s business, huh?”

He chuckled softly, completely unfazed. “Think of it as a well-developed instinct for being helpful.”

I gave an exaggerated sigh. “You’re a hero, truly. But I don’t need saving, Mr. Key Man.”

“I know,” he said calmly, lifting his glass and taking a slow sip. His eyes were clear and sharp. “But you do seem in desperate need of clarity.”

I frowned. “Is this how you treat all your neighbors? First their keys, then their dignity?”

He laughed—a low, rich sound. “Only when the neighbor looks like she’s on the verge of self-destruction.”

“…But I am always self-destructing,” I muttered, suddenly quieter. “Doesn’t it seem kind of pathetic? Like my whole life is just one mess after another?”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t rush to reassure me, either. He didn’t even deny what I’d just said.

He just looked at me. Calm. Quiet. Like he was watching a slow-motion disaster unfold—but had no intention of stopping it.

“You’re not wrong,” he finally said, voice low and steady. “You are pretty good at making a mess of things. Like right now—you can’t even stand properly and you’re still demanding more alcohol.”

I froze, frowning instinctively.

But he went on, his tone unhurried—like he was flipping through a book and had landed on a sentence he already knew by heart:

“But strangely, you always seem to meet someone who refuses to walk away... right before everything falls apart.”

I stared at him, half in shock, half in suspicion. “Are you… flirting with me?”

He gave me a slow smile, his eyes lazily curving with just the right amount of mischief. His voice came out smooth and provocative, like velvet wrapped around steel. “Does it make you feel any better?”

His voice was low and warm, like whiskey being poured into a glass at midnight—just a little dizzying, just a little dangerous. He looked at me with an intensity that felt nearly uncontrollable, like he might lean in close and whisper things in the dark, on a bed, asking if his touch was hard enough.

My heart skipped a beat. My cheeks flushed instantly. My fingertips tightened against the edge of the bar.

I had to look at him properly. Really see him.

That face—it wasn’t just handsome. It had the kind of quiet, devastating maturity that no amount of cologne and hair gel could fake. Not the kind you’d find among the over-groomed boys who danced to house music like they were owed the world.

A wild, uninvited thought flashed through my mind.

If I let him walk away tonight, maybe I was rejecting one of those rare, merciful moments when fate offered a second chance.

Before I could stop myself, my hand wrapped around the sleeve of his suit jacket. I rose from the barstool, heart pounding.

“So, Mr. Keys,” I said, my voice hoarse but firm, “since you’re so committed to helping… why not help all the way?”

He clearly hadn’t expected that. His brow lifted slightly, surprise flickering across his face—but he didn’t step back. He didn’t laugh. He simply said, calm and steady:

“Of course. As long as this is something you won’t deny when you’re sober.”

“I’m sure.” I answered without hesitation.

Gripping his wrist tighter, I pulled him through the crowd and out of the bar.

The night wind struck us like a cleansing slap, city lights flickering above.

I didn’t let myself pause. No time to think, no space for regret.

We crossed the street. Entered the nearest hotel lobby.

Because tonight, I needed to know if I had the courage to accept what fate had placed in front of me.

It must have been one hell of a night, because when I woke up, sunlight was spilling through the curtains, and the red LED numbers of the digital clock blinked 10:07 AM at me with the judgmental smugness of a nun catching you sneaking out of the church.

The sheets still carried his scent—bergamot and sin—and my body buzzed from the lingering aftershocks of what we’d done.

I stared at the ceiling and thought: That was absolutely phenomenal sex.

The kind that wrecks you, delights you, and makes you stupid enough to want another round.

I ached everywhere—in the best, most regrettable way.

But my head… my head was a battlefield. It felt like a hundred tiny jackhammers were drilling through my skull. The alcohol from last night had declared mutiny, and my brain was paying the price, like someone had jammed a red-hot poker through my temple.

I had no idea how much I drank—definitely more than I should’ve.

The details had vanished into a fog thicker than a London morning.

Groaning, I rolled out of bed. Groaned again. Began gathering the scattered pieces of my clothing.

The plan was simple: Get dressed. Sneak out. Pretend this never happened.

I had just picked up my skirt when a voice stopped me.

“Leaving so soon?”

Shit.

I turned—very slowly, thanks to the hangover and the shame—and saw him standing in the bathroom doorway, a towel slung low on his hips.

Droplets clung to his abs, catching the morning light, trailing down the deep V of his torso.

I stared. Unashamed.

Images from the night before surged back into my brain. I suddenly felt… very, very thirsty.

“We need to talk,” he said.