Chapter 5

Aaliyah's POV

My head and body ached as if I’d run a marathon in heels. I groaned, rolling over, expecting the familiar creak of my bed in my apartment—but the sheets beneath me were smooth, luxurious silk.

My eyes snapped open, and my breath caught. This wasn’t my bed, this wasn't my apartment either.

High ceilings with gilded molding, a crystal chandelier casting rainbows across the walls, and floor-to-ceiling windows revealing a glittering skyline. The bed was a cloud of crisp white linens, flanked by sleek mahogany nightstands.

A vase of fresh lilies perfumed the air, and a plush ivory rug softened the hardwood floor. My heart raced as I sat up, clutching the duvet. Where was I?

Memories of last night trickled back—the club’s neon lights, me dancing on a stage like I’d lost all sense, and Orrin Hayes.

Those stormy gray eyes, that mischievous grin, his insane proposal: Marry me. And my reckless reply: Yes.

My stomach lurched as the rest dissolved into a black void. What happened after I blacked out?

My hands flew to my dress—still the wrinkled black one from the club, thank God. But my shoes were neatly aligned by the bed, and my purse sat on a velvet armchair.

Had I… Did we…? I started to panic. I couldn’t remember if we did.

I swung my legs over the bed’s edge, my bare feet sinking into the rug, and spotted a folded note on the nightstand, my name scrawled in bold, confident script. My fingers trembled as I opened it.

"Dear Aaliyah,

You’re a wildfire, darling, but whiskey’s not your friend. Don’t fret—nothing scandalous happened last night. You danced, you dazzled, and you passed out in my arms like a damsel in a fairy tale. I carried you to my penthouse (you’re heavier than you look, by the way) and tucked you in. My home’s yours for the morning. Breakfast’s in the kitchen, aspirin’s by the sink—take it, you’ll need it.

I’m still reeling from your “yes” to my proposal. I hope it wasn’t just the liquor talking. Call me when you’re ready to turn Henry and Aurora’s world upside down. Or, you know, just to mix me another of those Monroe Specials.

Yours,

Orrin

P.S. You mumble in your sleep. Something about cake? Adorable."

Relief washed over me, though my cheeks burned at his teasing. Nothing happened between us last night.

The 'Yours' and that jab about my sleep-talking sent a flutter through me, but I shoved it down.

His question lingered: I hope it wasn’t just the liquor talking. I didn’t know what to make of that. The deal was tempting—revenge on Henry and Aurora, backed by a billionaire’s power—but marriage? To a man I’d just met?

I glanced at my phone: 10:52 a.m. My heart stopped. I had a 9:30 meeting with the Larson Group, a make-or-break client for my crumbling PR firm. Shit, I was screwed.

I scrambled up, ignoring the headache, and grabbed my shoes. The penthouse was a labyrinth of marble floors and modern art, but I found the kitchen—gleaming granite counters, a spread of croissants, and fresh orange juice I didn’t have time for.

I swallowed two aspirin with a gulp of water, stuffed Orrin’s note in my purse, and bolted for the elevator.

The mirrored doors reflected a mess: tangled blonde hair, smudged mascara, and a dress that screamed walk-of-shame. No time to deal with all that though.

The cab ride to my office was torture, New York traffic crawling as my anxiety spiked. I smoothed my dress, wiped off the mascara and brushed my hair, tying it up and praying I didn’t look as wrecked as I felt.

As I got to the office, Tara, my assistant, was at her desk, her eyes widening as I burst in.

“Aaliyah, where were you? The Larson Group—”

“Gone, right?” I interrupted, my voice tight, already knowing the answer but hoping I was wrong.

She nodded, wincing. “They waited fifteen minutes, then stormed out. Mr. Larson was… harsh.”

I leaned against the wall, dread pooling in my gut. “What did he say?”

Tara bit her lip, hesitant. “He said you’re a liability. Unreliable, unprofessional. That your firm’s a sinking ship, and they don’t partner with failures.”

The words cut deeper than I expected. I’d spent days perfecting that pitch, pouring my last scraps of energy into winning Larson’s contract. It was my last hope.

After the divorce, everything started to go south for me. My firm was on its last legs, and they were my lifeline. I rubbed my temples, the headache roaring.

“Thanks, Tara. I’ll… handle it.”

I didn’t. I spent the day staring at my computer, emails from other clients piling up, each one a reminder of my collapse.

“You look a mess. Maybe you should take the rest of the day off and go clean up at home,” Tara insisted.

By 4 p.m., Tara’s pitying glances and worries were too much. I grabbed my bag and headed home, the subway ride a blur of frustration and self-loathing. I’d blown it. My business, my reputation—everything was slipping away.

At my apartment, Lisa was sprawled on my couch, munching chips, her dark curls bouncing as she shot up. I didn't expect to find her here but then I remembered she had a day off.

“Aaliyah! Where the hell have you been? I called you a million times! Where did you spend the night?”

I kicked off my shoes, collapsing beside her. “I’m alive. Barely. Had a night.”

She narrowed her eyes, tossing a chip at me. “You look like you partied with a rock band and lost. Spill, now.”

I sighed, pulling Orrin’s note from my purse. “Went to a club. Got drunk. Danced on a stage. Met Orrin Hayes and he… proposed.”

Lisa’s jaw hit the floor, chips forgotten. “Orrin? You mean the Orrin Hayes? He proposed? Like, ring-on-finger proposed? why am I just hearing about this?”

I handed her the note, letting her read as I recounted the night—Orrin’s charm, the drink-mixing, his offer to crush Henry and Aurora.

I skipped the pregnancy; that secret was still too heavy. Lisa’s eyes grew wider with every word, and by the end, she was practically bouncing.

“Hold up,” she said, waving the note like a victory flag.

“This guy’s a damn powerful billionaire, hotter than a summer day, and wants to be your revenge sidekick? And you’re not signing up? Aaliyah, this is a rom-com waiting to happen!”

“It’s a mistake,” I spat, snatching the note back. “I was drunk, Lisa. I’m not marrying some man I just met, no matter how popular he is or how much he hates Henry.”

She scoffed, leaning closer. “Oh, please. He’s smitten, carried you to his penthouse, and didn’t try anything? That’s, like, knight-in-shining-Armani behavior. You’re telling me those gray eyes didn’t make your heart skip?”

I hesitated, remembering Orrin’s arms, his cedar-and-rain scent.

“He’s… persuasive. But it’s insane. I’m a mess, not a bride.”

“Honey, Insane is what you need,” Lisa shot back, grinning.

“Your life’s a dumpster fire, babe. This guy’s offering a flamethrower to burn Henry and Aurora to the ground. Plus, he thinks you’re adorable when you sleep-talk about cake? Marry him yesterday.”

I laughed despite myself, shoving her playfully. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re stubborn,” she retorted, tossing another chip. “Take the deal. Get revenge, get rich, get laid. In that order.”

Before I could argue, my phone buzzed—an unknown number. I frowned, answering. “Hello?”

“Ms. Monroe, this is Richard Larson,” a gruff voice said. My stomach dropped.

“We owe you an apology. Our reaction this morning was… hasty. We’d like to discuss the contract. Can you meet us tonight?”

I blinked, stunned. “You’re serious? I mean— I'm the one who owe you an apology not the other way round—”

“We’re very serious, Ms. Monroe,” he said. “7 p.m., Le Bernardin. Dress for dinner. We’ll send the address.”

The call ended, and I stared at the phone, suspicion prickling. Le Bernardin was upscale, not a typical meeting spot.

Lisa raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

“The Larson Group,” I said, still processing. “They apologized. Want to meet tonight, but it’s… weird. Dinner at a fancy restaurant?”

Lisa clapped, grinning. “See? The universe is fixing itself! Go, dazzle them. But wear something stunning.”

“It feels off,” I said, chewing my lip. “Why dinner?”

“Stop overthinking,” Lisa insisted, dragging me to my closet. “You’re going. Wear the red dress. It screams ‘don’t mess with me.’”

An hour later, I was in a sleek red gown, my blonde hair swept up, heels clicking as I entered Le Bernardin.

The restaurant was all elegance—dim lighting, white tablecloths, the murmur of wealth.

I dialed the number again, my nerves jangling. A familiar voice answered, smooth and teasing. “Aaliyah, turn to your left.”

My heart skipped, already knowing. I turned, and there he was—Orrin, seated at the bar, legs crossed, his gray eyes locked on me with a grin that promised trouble.

His phone in which he used to talk to me, was still in his ear, his tailored suit hugging his frame. The Larson Group didn't bring me here. Orrin did.