Chapter 2

“Girl, sigurado ka ba talaga?” Cam asked for the fourth time habang naka-park kami sa harap ng five-star hotel. “You’re literally swaying like a drunk flamingo in heels.”

I unbuckled my seatbelt with all the grace ng isang queen na bagong galing bar. “Camille, I’m fine. I’ve walked on stilettos through snow in Milan. A little tequila won’t kill me.”

Cam rolled her eyes. “Hindi snow ‘to, Erena. Carpeted floor. With walls. And elevators. And coordination.”

“Whatever,” I said, grabbing my bag and opening the door with confidence na hindi aligned sa kalagayan ng katawan ko.

The cold air slapped me the moment I stepped out. My head spun like a poorly made cocktail.

Cam called out, “Text me kung sumuka ka ulit, ha!”

“Bastos,” I muttered, waving her off while clutching my purse like it could stabilize me.

Inside the lobby, everything looked... shiny. Too shiny. The chandelier sparkled like it was mocking me. Even the marble floors felt smug.

“Miss Lopez,” greeted the concierge with that overly polite tone that said we pretend not to judge rich people doing dumb things.

I tried to confidently walk as if I'm not drunk. Para ipakita sa kanila na kaya ko ang sarili ko.

Pero sa loob loob ko hindi ko na sigurado ang room number ko. "I can do this. I'll surely remember it once I'm there. They only have two doors sa floor na yun", pampalubag ko sa utak ko.

At ng makarating ng maayos sa tapat ng elevator, I strutted toward it, barely holding myself upright. I pressed the button with the elegance of someone who hadn’t almost vomited on a man less than an hour ago.

The doors slid open. I stepped in.

I blinked at the panel.

“Eight...teen...zero...something?” I mumbled, hitting buttons like a drunk DJ. My vision doubled for a second, but I shook it off. “No. I’m Erena Lopez. I don't get drunk. I glow under pressure.”

Ding.

Floor eighteen.

I stepped out, stumbling slightly but managing to throw in a hair flip like it was intentional.

Room 1809 Or 1808?

Whatever.

I pulled out the keycard, squinted at it, and swiped it at the first door I saw. The green light blinked. Unlocked. See? Perfect.

Erena Lopez: undefeated.

I stepped inside, kicked off my heels, and dropped my purse like a war trophy. The room was dark but smelled expensive. Like wood, leather, and something masculine.

“Damn,” I whispered, slowly making my way to the bed. “Y’all really clean fast here.”

I didn’t even bother turning on the lights. My head was pounding. My dress was tight. I face-planted onto the mattress, relishing the cold silk sheets and the temporary peace.

My eyes feel heavy. I finally can stop pretending that the alcohol did nothing to me. Everything is blurry and I feel sleepy.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Then... footsteps.

I barely lifted my head, one eye squinting at the tall, dripping-wet figure that just walked out of the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, hair slicked back, water sliding down perfectly sculpted abs like he was auditioning for a sin.

Holy.

Living.

Greek. Statue.

He was wiping his face with another towel, unaware that I was very much awake and having what I assumed was a wild, vivid, high-definition, tequila-powered dream.

Because that? That man?

Was definitely not a hotel ghost. Or an illusion. Or someone my drunk brain had the right to imagine.

“Wow,” I whispered. “Even my hallucinations are rich and hot.”

He stopped mid-step. His head turned.

“Huh?” he muttered, confused.

I propped myself up on one elbow, grinning like a fox. “You’re a very detailed dream, you know that? The abs? The dripping water? The towel barely hanging on for dear life? 10 out of 10. Would fantasize again.”

His mouth dropped open. Then slowly... he smiled. Smirked, actually.

Oh no.

Smirking dream men meant one thing: I was about to say something humiliating.

“I bet your voice is deep, too,” I added, voice slurring just a little as I blinked lazily at him. “Do you talk in this dream, or do we just skip to the scandalous part?”

He raised a brow. “Scandalous part?”

I sat up more, eyes half-lidded. “The part where you fall in love with the heiress-slash-drunk goddess on your bed.”

There was a pause. A very long pause.

Then the man—the real, live, actual man—laughed.

It wasn’t a loud laugh. More like that rich, low chuckle you’d expect from someone amused and very aware he had the upper hand.

Wait. He looked like someone earlier. The one I bumped into and puked on. Geez.

I grinned. “You’re not real. You’re the sexy karma from earlier. Back for revenge and maybe a little seduction.”

Still grinning. “Do you talk too, or are you here to model and moisturize?”

He smirked. “You think this is a dream?”

“Oh absolutely. Real life isn’t this generous.”

I tried to sit up, dramatically flipping my hair—then everything spun. My head went sideways.

“Wait—”

Too late.

My stomach lurched.

With the grace of a dethroned queen, I vomited all over the pristine sheets.

Again.

Silence.

Then, faintly, just as I slumped back down—

"...Again?!" His voice was so full of disbelief, I would've laughed if I wasn’t semi-dead.

And then—darkness.

Total blackout.

.............

Sunlight slapped my face.

My head throbbed like a hangover mixtape. My tongue felt like it hosted a sandpaper convention.

I groaned, rolling onto my side, when I realized—

Wait.

Where the hell am I?

This wasn’t my room.

These sheets were crisp. Fresh. Not the vomit-soaked battlefield from last night.

I bolted upright and instantly regretted it. “Ow—ow—ow.”

My head felt like it was being drilled by a jackhammer wearing stilettos.

I blinked at my surroundings.

Hotel suite.

Classy. Quiet. Familiar... in a horrifying way.

I looked down.

NO. NO. NO.

The blanket slid slightly and—OH MY GOD I’M NAKED.

I grabbed the covers and wrapped them around me like armor. My clothes? Nowhere. No purse. No phone. No heels. Nothing.

“WHERE IS MY LIFE?!”

I screamed internally, clutching the bedsheet and checking every inch of the bed.

Nothing.

No receipts, no clues, not even the ghost of my dignity.

And my memory?

BLANK.

Completely. Utterly. Black.

I pressed my palms into my forehead. “What did I do last night...?”

I said it out loud. Frustrated. Panicked. As if the sheets could answer.

Images flickered in my head—bar. Cam. Tequila. Glitter? Wait, no, someone’s abs. Towels? Laughter?

I froze.

“Oh. My. God.”

My last clear thought was seeing a very wet, very shirtless man with a towel and a smile that could melt corporate stocks.

I groaned, falling backward onto the pillows. “I swear to God if I touched him... if I did anything...”

The door clicked.

My heart stopped.

PLEASE BE ROOM SERVICE. PLEASE BE A NUN.

But no.

Of course not.

It was him.

That man.

Wearing a black shirt, sleeves rolled up, holding a cup of coffee like he didn’t just find a stranger unconscious in his suite the night before.

His eyes swept the room. Landed on me.

Wrapped in his hotel blanket.

Hair wild.

Face frozen.

“Mornin’,” he said casually, sipping his coffee.

I stared at him, horrified.

He tilted his head. “You look... rested.”

“Where are my clothes?”

He raised a brow. “Dry-cleaning.”

My eyes widened. “Did you—did I—did we—?”

He smirked, the kind of smirk that made me want to either slap him or marry him. “What do you remember?”

I groaned, collapsing into the pillows again.

Nothing.

Absolutely. Nothing.