Chapter 3-One night stand

The morning light didn’t wake Alita; it attacked her.

A jagged, splitting headache hammered against the inside of her skull, each throb feeling like a physical blow.

She groaned, the sound raw and scratchy in her throat, before slowly forcing her eyelids open.

For a few seconds, the world was a blur of beige and gold.

Then, the clarity hit her, and with it, a cold wave of confusion.

The ceiling was wrong.

The curtains were a deep, heavy velvet she didn’t recognize.

The air smelled of that same oppressive sandalwood and something musky, something masculine.

This isn’t my room, she thought, the realization clicking into place with a terrifying snap.

“Ouch…”

She winced, a sharp gasp escaping her as she tried to shift her weight to sit up.

The room spun slightly, forcing her to squeeze her eyes shut for a moment before she gathered enough strength to move again.

As she moved, the heavy duvet slid down her body, exposing the smooth, pale expanse of her chest and shoulders to the chilly morning air.

Panic surged through her, a violent electric shock that sent her heart hammering against her ribs.

She gripped the blanket, pulling it back up to her chin with trembling hands, her breathing becoming shallow and erratic.

Then, she felt it.

A searing, raw throb pulsed between her legs, a deep-seated ache that made her entire lower body feel bruised and heavy.

Her breath hitched, catching in a sob she couldn’t quite release.

“No…” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“No… no, this can’t be happening.”

Her eyes, wide and shimmering with unshed tears, scanned the room with desperate intensity.

The luxury of the suite now felt like a gilded cage.

Her gaze landed on the floor, where clothes were strewn about in a chaotic trail—like a map of a struggle she couldn’t remember.

She saw her own silk slip, twisted and discarded, lying next to a pair of heavy black trousers and a dress shirt.

And then she saw the bedsheets.

There, stark and incriminating against the white fabric, were the crimson stains.

The sight of the blood made her stomach drop, a sickening feeling of vertigo washing over her.

The memories were fragmented—darkness, a strong grip, the feeling of being overwhelmed—but the evidence was undeniable.

Her vision blurred with tears as questions crashed through her mind.

What happened?

Who was here?

Why couldn’t she remember anything?

Oh God…

Just as the horror began to truly sink in, a sound echoed from the adjoining room.

The rhythmic, steady hiss of running water.

Someone was in the shower.

The sound, which should have been mundane, felt like a countdown.

Every second the water ran was a second she had before the door opened and the supposed man stepped out.

Panic consumed her entirely, overriding the pain and the shock.

I need to leave.

I have to get out of here right now.

The thought of him seeing her—seeing her broken, trembling and terrified in his bed—was more than she could bear.

She couldn’t let him touch her again.

She couldn’t look at him.

Ignoring the agonizing soreness in her hips and the way her legs shook, Alita threw back the covers.

She scrambled across the floor, her movements frantic and clumsy.

She grabbed her undergarments, pulling them on with shaking hands, then struggled into her dress, her fingers fumbling with the zipper as she fought back a sob.

The zipper finally slid into place.

She snatched up her shoes but didn’t even stop to put them on, clutching them tightly in one hand.

She didn’t stop to check her makeup or the state of her hair.

She didn’t even look back at the bed.

As the sound of the shower stopped, Alita lunged for the door.

She ripped it open and bolted into the hallway, her bare feet slapping against the plush carpet, running as if the devil himself were snapping at her heels.