After One Night Stand I Became His Wife

Layla woke with a pounding headache and a mouth as dry as sand. As her eyes adjusted to the unfamiliar bedroom, her heart froze.

There was a man beside her, muscular, shirtless, and undeniably gorgeous. But he was a stranger. And she was naked.

Flashes of the previous night hit her like knives, not as dialogues, but as vivid, brutal recollections of events.

She remembered her adoptive parents, their faces contorted with fury, their shouts echoing in her ears as they accused her of "ungratefulness" during another one of their endless arguments.

The memory of a stinging slap, a dizzying blow, and the coppery taste of blood in her mouth was sharp, followed by the frantic scramble to escape their violence, tearing her shirt in the process as she finally broke free, blood on the fabric.

Barely having escaped that nightmare, she sought refuge with her boyfriend, Mark. The image of his apartment door, slightly ajar, the soft glow of a lamp within, was etched in her mind. Then, the gut-wrenching sight of him in bed with his ex-girlfriend, their bodies entangled.

When she confronted him. He laughed and told her. "You were never enough, Layla. Never pretty. Never worth it. Let's break up. Rina is more beautiful and hotter than you. You don't even let me have sex with you.”

In the aftermath of this double betrayal, her best friend, Cami, found her, desperate and distraught, and dragged her to a club. It was Layla’s first time drinking, and the memory was a disorienting blur of flashing lights, pulsating music, and the unfamiliar burn of alcohol in her throat.

After that, nothing. A blank, terrifying void. She doesn't remember anything.

The panic was immediate and overwhelming. She had to get out before this stranger woke up.

Carefully and meticulously, she began to move. Each rustle of the sheets was an auditory assault, each creak of the bed frame a potential alarm. Her clothes were scattered on the floor, a crumpled heap of shame and desperation. She snatched them, pulling them on with trembling fingers. Her shirt, still faintly stained with the blood from her parents’ beating, felt like a branding iron against her skin.

She didn't dare look at him again. Didn't dare acknowledge his presence, his sculpted form, the unspoken accusation of their shared, unknown night. Her movements were silent, fueled by an adrenaline-laced terror. She found her purse, thankfully untouched, and clutched it like a lifeline.

The door to the bedroom felt miles away. She tiptoed across the plush carpet, her bare feet sinking slightly into the pile. Her hand trembled as she reached for the cold metal of the doorknob. A click. A soft whisper of air as the door opened. She was out.

The hotel corridor was silent, bathed in a soft, artificial light. Each step she took echoed in the oppressive quiet, amplified by her racing heart. She found the elevator, jabbed the down arrow repeatedly, her fingers numb. The ride down felt like an eternity. With each floor, a fresh wave of nausea washed over her.

When the elevator doors finally chimed open, she practically bolted. The lobby was hushed, a few early risers sipping coffee, oblivious to the storm raging within her. She didn’t stop, didn’t look back. She pushed through the revolving doors, bursting out into the cool morning air like a prisoner released from a cage.

Layla walked aimlessly at first, then with a growing urgency towards the familiar comfort of Cami’s apartment. Her best friend was the only constant, the only unwavering support in her chaotic life.

She practically collapsed against Cami’s door, pounding on it with a desperate fervor. Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing Cami.

“Layla? What the—what happened to you?” Cami’s voice was thick with sleep, laced with concern.

Layla stumbled inside, the words tumbling out in a torrent, a broken symphony of pain and humiliation. “I slept…slept with someone. I woke up… I woke up next to a stranger. I was… I was naked.”

Cami, who had been listening with a furrowed brow, suddenly burst out laughing. It wasn’t a malicious laugh, but a light, teasing sound that grated on Layla’s raw nerves.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, L,” Cami managed between giggles. She clapped Layla on the shoulder, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Hold up. You mean to tell me…you finally lost your v-card? And to some random hot guy from a club? Layla, that’s amazing! Probably way better than that pathetic excuse for a boyfriend, Mark, anyway. Good for you, girl!”

Layla stared at her, horrified. The laughter, the casual congratulations, the utter lack of understanding, it all hit her like a physical blow. Shame, a hot, toxic wave, washed over her. Her throat tightened, and a choked sound escaped her lips.

“Cami… this isn’t funny. I don’t even know who he was. I don’t have any money, Cami. No place to go. I just… I just escaped.”

Cami’s laughter died, replaced by a flicker of concern. She pulled Layla into a hug, her arms tightening around her trembling frame. “Oh, L. I’m so sorry. I didn’t… I just thought… Look, it’s okay. You’re safe here. We’ll figure it out. You can stay with me for as long as you need. And we’ll get you some money, we’ll get you a job. We’ll get you a new life.”

The next few days blurred into a haze of numbness for Layla. Cami was true to her word, a steadfast presence, a comforting anchor in the stormy waters of Layla’s despair. They went through Cami’s meager savings, buying a few new clothes for Layla, essentials.

Layla spent her days in Cami’s small apartment, staring blankly at the television, her mind replaying the painful events of that night, unable to shake the feeling of profound shame and disorientation.

Then, on the fourth day, a strange letter arrived.

It was crisp, heavy stock, an expensive envelope bearing an embossed seal. Frost Enterprises. The name was familiar, whispered in the hushed tones of financial news and business magazines. A corporate behemoth, an empire. Layla, in her current state of mind, barely registered it. She tore it open, her fingers fumbling, expecting some sort of bill or advertisement.

Her eyes scanned the formal script, then landed on the signature at the bottom. The letter requested her presence at Frost Enterprises’ headquarters. It was polite, almost deferential, yet held an undeniable undertone of expectation.

Layla scoffed, crumpled the letter, and tossed it into the wastebasket. “Probably some mistake,” she mumbled to Cami, who was busy painting her nails. “Spam, or they’ve got the wrong Layla.”

The idea of a powerful CEO wanting to see her was ludicrous.

She tried to forget about it, but the letter, or rather the sheer improbability of it, nagged at the edges of her consciousness. Frost Enterprises. Colden Frost. The name echoed faintly in her memory, but she couldn’t place it. She dismissed it as a residual symptom of her trauma, a mind playing tricks on her.

That night, Layla couldn't sleep. The unfamiliar bed in Cami’s guest room felt too soft, too foreign. The silence of the apartment was punctuated only by the distant hum of city life, and the relentless pounding of her own anxieties. She tossed and turned, the image of the stranger’s face, the handsome, unsettling face, flashing behind her eyelids.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from the living room. Layla sat bolt upright, her heart leaping into her throat.

“Cami?” she whispered, her voice trembling. No answer.

Another crash, louder this time, followed by the splintering sound of wood. Then, muffled shouts. Fear, cold and visceral, seized her. She scrambled out of bed, her bare feet hitting the cold floor.

She crept towards the living room, her breath held captive in her lungs. The door was ajar. Through the narrow gap, she saw two men dressed in dark, impeccably tailored suits. Their faces were impassive, almost grim, like statues carved from stone.

One of them held Cami, her mouth covered by a large hand, her eyes wide with terror. The other was systematically tearing through the apartment, flipping over furniture, emptying drawers.

“We know you’re here, Ms. Hayes,” one of them said, his voice low and guttural, devoid of any warmth. “Mr. Frost wishes to see you.”

Layla’s blood ran cold. “W-Who?”

Before she could react, before she could even formulate a scream, the man holding Cami released her and spun towards the bedroom door.

Layla turned to run, but it was too late. He was upon her in an instant, his hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her desperate cry. Another man joined him, and together, they hoisted her, one on each side, her feet dangling uselessly above the floor.

Cami, now free, lunged forward with a furious shriek, but the first man merely extended an arm, pushing her back with surprising force. Cami stumbled, hitting the wall with a sickening thud, then collapsing to the floor.

“Cami!” Layla’s voice was a muffled sob against the man’s palm. She struggled, kicking and squirming, but their grip was like iron.

She was dragged through the living room, past the overturned furniture, past Cami’s crumpled form. The night air, once a symbol of freedom, now felt suffocating. They bundled her into a waiting black car, its windows tinted, a sinister, anonymous presence on the quiet street.

The doors slammed shut with a heavy thud, sealing her in darkness. The engine purred to life, and the car accelerated smoothly, silently. Layla pressed her face against the cold glass, her breath fogging the pane. Through the blur, she saw Cami, scrambling to her feet, staring after the retreating car, her face a mask of terror and helplessness.

Tears streamed down Layla’s face, hot and stinging. She was being kidnapped. By men in suits. All because of a letter she had ignored.