Accidental Night with the Boss

The Regent Grand Hotel, Suite 2801

Isabella Rossi woke to the scent of bergamot and expensive linen, her body humming with a bone-deep ache. For a moment, she floated in hazy contentment, nestling into the solid warmth beside her. Zachary. 

After two years of careful restraint—every fumbled kiss in his vintage Mustang, every time she’d gently pushed his hands from the hem of her dress—she’d finally given him everything. 

Last night hadn’t just been surrender; it was a sacrament. Her 25th birthday. An act she hoped he'd come to know how much it meant to her.

He feels different, she mused, sliding a hand over lean muscle beneath the sheets. Firmer. Broader. Had training for the London Marathon sculpted him like this? She’d teased him about his "dad-bod" just weeks ago—

“Mmm…you’re awake?” A low, sleep-roughened voice vibrated against her temple. “I may have been… overzealous last night.”

This voice!

Ice flooded her veins. She jerked upright, scrambling back as the man beside her turned.

Three seconds of silence.

Then chaos. Isabella lunged for the bedside lamp. Harsh light exploded over the room, illuminating a stranger—all sharp cheekbones, disheveled ink-black hair, and eyes like Arctic frost.

“Who are you?” The scream tore from her raw. She yanked the duvet to her chin, heart hammering against her ribs. This wasn’t Zachary Grant. This was a dark haired, chiseled chin predator in silk pajamas.

The man sat up, utterly unfazed, his gaze sweeping her with unnerving calm. “This is my suite. The real question is: who orchestrated this little scene? You, or your handler?”

“Orchestrated—?” Isabella choked out. Panic clawed up her throat. “This is Suite 2801! My best friend, Chloe—she gave me the keycard! This was supposed to be Zachary’s room—”

A derisive snort cut her off. “Please. ‘Suite 2801’? ‘Zachary’?” Vincent Sinclair raked a hand through his hair, his laugh devoid of warmth. “Women invent prettier lies to slip into my bed. At least be original. Name your price.”

Price. The word was a slap. Isabella staggered to her feet, clutching the duvet like armor. Memories crashed over her:

Chloe Dubois, clinking champagne flutes at ‘Le Clair de Lune’… “He’s leaving for two years, Bella! Lock. Him. Down.”

The room spinning… Chloe pressing a keycard into her palm… “Penthouse suite, darling. Go be glorious.”

Stumbling through a dim hallway, fumbling with a lock… the scent of cedar and sea salt enveloping her as arms pulled her close…

Had she walked into the wrong suite? But Chloe was specific—2801. The Empire Suite.

“I don’t want your money!” Isabella’s voice cracked. “I want Zachary! Where is he?”

Vincent watched her scour the room—peering into the marble bathroom, wrenching open the walk-in closet—his initial scorn hardening into something darker. Her panic felt… visceral. Real. Unlike most women's usual calculated theatrics.

His phone rang, shattering the tension. Assistant flashed on the screen.

“Come get me.” Vincent’s tone could freeze mercury. “Now.”

“Mr.Vincent, Forgive me!” The assistant's voice spilled through the speaker, frantic and rushed. “The Madam called, I'll be there immediately.”

Vincent’s eyes locked onto Isabella, who stood frozen by the window, tears streaking her cheeks.

Then he looked to the duvet. Spots of red coloured the bedding.

“You were… adequate,” Vincent drawled, icy fury coiling in his gut. It was confusing how he didn’t remember him opening the door for her or how he'd taken that step without any disgust but he still remembered the hot breaths, the cries of pleasure from her mouth.

 But now she looked like she'd suffered the greatest injustice 

The silence that followed was suffocating. Isabella sank to the floor beside a potted fiddle-leaf fig, her shoulders shaking. Her first time. A gift for the man she loved… stolen. Given to a stranger as a party favor. Humiliation burned hotter than the lingering ache between her thighs. How do I face Zachary? How do I face myself?

Vincent watched her crumple. His guilt was a cold, unwelcome stone in his chest.

"Good bye."

And then he was gone.