Chapter Eight: You Fucking Asshole

Sophia Bennett

The morning sunlight sliced through the room like an unwelcome intruder, painting everything in harsh golds and forcing me to squint against its glare. I let out a heavy sigh, rolling over in the unfamiliar bed, my body heavy with the remnants of sleep and something far more unsettling. “Babe, close the curtains, Ethan,” I mumbled, my voice thick and groggy. “Ethan?”

No answer. Just the soft hum of air conditioning and the distant murmur of city life far below.

“Are you done with your dream? Are you awake now?” The voice was deep, calm, and completely wrong. Not Ethan’s.

My eyes snapped open. I turned slowly, and the world tilted on its axis. A man stood by the tall window, silhouetted against the bright morning light. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair tousled just enough to look effortlessly perfect. His features were sharp—strong jaw, piercing eyes, the kind of face that belonged in magazines or on billboards, not in whatever fevered hallucination this was. He looked like a god carved from marble and midnight. Handsome didn’t even begin to cover it.

For a stunned second, I could only stare, drinking him in despite the rising panic clawing at my chest.

“Are you just going to stare at me all morning?” he asked, his tone laced with dry amusement.

The sound of his voice shattered the spell. Reality crashed back in. Where the hell was I? This wasn’t my apartment. This wasn’t Ethan. My heart slammed against my ribs as I sat up too quickly, the sheet slipping down to my waist. My breasts were bare, exposed to the cool air and his unwavering gaze. I yanked the fabric up, cheeks burning, but the damage was done. The bed beneath me felt damp—sticky in places—and when I glanced down, a faint smear of blood caught my eye against the crisp white sheets. My stomach twisted.

“Who are you?” I shouted, voice cracking with a mix of fury, confusion, and raw embarrassment. “What am I doing here? Did you kidnap me? Abduct Ethan? What the hell is this?”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, his expression hardened slightly, those intense eyes narrowing as he watched me unravel.

“Are you insane?” I continued, my words tumbling out faster than I could think. “Do you have any human conscience at all? You can’t just—”

Memories slammed into me then, fragmented and humiliating. Ethan—my fiancé—cheating on me with another man in our own bed. The betrayal had hit like a freight train. I stormed out, heart shattered, and headed straight for the nearest bar. Drink after drink blurred the edges of my pain until the world spun. I’d asked for a room, something, anything to escape. After that… nothing. A black void.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” I demanded, my face flaming hotter. “Why am I here? You’re going to pay for this, you asshole. You will pay for this.”

He moved closer to the bed, his movements deliberate, controlled. The air between us thickened, charged with the ghost of something I couldn’t quite grasp but could still feel lingering on my skin. “I didn’t force you,” he said evenly. “You forced yourself on me. You were drunk—completely intoxicated. You came on strong, begging for it. Screaming for me to go harder. Like a woman who hadn’t been touched properly in years.”

His words landed like punches. I wanted to deny it, to scream that it couldn’t be true, but flashes teased at the edges of my mind: strong hands, a commanding voice, pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. My thighs still ached faintly. The wetness between my legs wasn’t just from sleep. Shame burned through me, hot and unrelenting.

“You’re behaving like a child,” he continued, almost to himself, as if explaining the situation aloud would make sense. “Pretending you don’t remember. Like you weren’t the one clawing at me, desperate and wild.”

Before I could fire back, the door to the suite opened. A sharply dressed man in a tailored suit stepped inside, nodding respectfully. “Mr. Damien,” he greeted, his tone deferential.

Damien. So that was his name. It suited him—dark, commanding, impossible to forget.

Damien’s eyes darkened as he glanced at the newcomer. He gave a slight nod, the gesture carrying the weight of authority. The man bowed his head briefly, like something out of a dramatic film, then waited for instructions.

“Take care of her,” Damien said coolly. “Pay her the money.”

Money? The word echoed in my head. What money? Was I some kind of transaction to him? The implication stung worse than the hangover throbbing behind my eyes.

Damien didn’t wait for my reaction. He walked straight toward the door, pausing only long enough to deliver one final warning over his shoulder. “I don’t want to see you again. If our paths cross, you’ll regret it.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me alone with the stranger in the suit and a storm of emotions I could barely contain. Anger surged through me, hot and purifying. Who the hell did he think he was? Some rich, arrogant prick who could fuck me senseless one night and dismiss me like hired help the next? I had never felt so used, so discarded. Yet beneath the rage, a treacherous flicker of heat remained—memories of his mouth on me, his body pressing me into the mattress, the way he’d made me come apart like no one ever had.

I wouldn’t let it matter. I refused.

The suited man approached cautiously, pulling an envelope from his jacket. “Miss, if you’ll allow me—”

“Save it,” I snapped, though my voice wavered. I gathered the sheet tighter around myself, dignity in tatters but pride still intact. I had survived Ethan’s betrayal. I would survive this too.

As the man handled whatever arrangements Damien had ordered, I stared at the closed door. That insufferable, gorgeous asshole. I hoped I never laid eyes on him again. The world was far too big, too wide, for our paths to cross a second time. And if they did? I’d make sure he was the one who regretted it.

I dressed quickly once the room was mine again, ignoring the soreness in my muscles and the confusing ache between my legs. The blood on the sheets told a story I wasn’t ready to examine—proof that last night had been real, raw, and far more intense than any dream. Part of me wanted to curl up and disappear. Another part, sharper and angrier, wanted answers. Closure. Revenge, maybe.

But for now, I needed distance. Fresh air. A shower hot enough to scrub away his touch and the humiliating thrill it still sparked in me. Damien Blackwood—or whatever his full name was—had been a mistake born of heartbreak and alcohol. A one-night mistake I would bury deep.

I stepped out of that luxurious prison of a room with my head high, even as my heart raced with unresolved fury and something dangerously close to longing. Never again. Not if I had anything to say about it.