Accidental Betrayal

At our university class reunion, the class president had chosen a fancy club known for its stunning male escorts.

After a bathroom break, I bumped into one of the escorts. He had this otherworldly charm, like a mystical figure out of a fantasy show, and his gaze was intense enough to make anyone's knees buckle.

Clearly drunk, he slurred, "Miss, I'm from Suite 305. Can you help me get back there?"

It was obvious he was so drunk he got lost in his own workplace.

He towered over me at six foot one, and he had a warm and slightly raspy voice. My mind raced with inappropriate thoughts.

"You're lost, huh? Follow me," I said, my voice betraying my own excitement.

What followed was a blur of passion and poor decisions. When I woke up to the aftermath, I could not help but question every choice I had made.

I had had relationships before, but this was uncharted territory for me.

Even though I had never done this before, I knew I had to pay up.

While he was sleeping like a log, I quietly got dressed and called my best friend, Macie Lawson. She always bragged about being the queen of nightclubs, so she definitely knew the market rate for such encounters.

"That depends on the body, looks, and service. The better they are, the more expensive. Why do you need to know?" she replied, her curiosity piqued.

I took another look at him. He looked amazing. The blanket just barely covered his waist, revealing his perfectly toned abs and long, straight legs. Remembering how he called me 'honey' with that husky voice last night but acted like a beast for an hour straight, I felt a dull ache in my waist and swallowed hard.

It hadn't just been a good time; it had been an absolute feast.

To avoid any awkwardness, I left my wallet on the nightstand. It had the cash I withdrew yesterday. Worried it might not be enough, I also left a note with my phone number.

When I got back to the house I shared with Macie, she practically dragged me to the couch to show off a photo of her new boyfriend.

"I don't want to see. You could make a whole album out of your exes, but none of them lasted more than two months," I muttered, trying to shift my aching back into a more comfortable position.

"Oh, but this one is different. This time, I've found true love. He's the head of surgery at my hospital. Just look!" she insisted, her rare seriousness catching my curiosity.

I reluctantly glanced at her phone screen, and immediately, a wave of discomfort washed over me. The face in the photo was unmistakable—it was the guy I had slept with last night.

A friend request popped up on Messenger: [I'm Henry Gordon. Wendy, why did you just leave after spending the night with me?]

His profile picture was a cartoon character in a white lab coat, and his bio said he was the head of surgery at the same hospital where Macie worked.

I quickly covered my phone and looked at Macie, my stomach in knots. "Macie, does your boyfriend's last name happen to be Gordon?"

Macie burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. "Wendy, you actually remember that? I talk about you to him all the time. I even showed him our photos together. He's dying to meet you," she said, still chuckling.

I could barely keep my voice steady, "So, he knows me?"

"Of course, you're my best friend,"

In my 27 years alive as Wendy Jones, I had never felt such a wave of guilt. My one-night stand was with my best friend's boyfriend.

Macie went to work, and I feigned a stomach ache to get a day off. I declined her offer to stay and take care of me.

My stomach wasn't hurting, but my life felt like it was. I needed space to think.