La femme contractuelle du médecin milliardaire

The tequila hit Ezra’s throat like fire and regret.

He slammed the empty shot glass onto the sticky bar, letting the burn chase away thoughts of that woman—her packed bags, her parting words, her smug little smile like she'd been waiting to drop the bomb.

“You’re not enough for me,” she’d said.

The club pulsed around him, all bass and dim lights, strangers grinding out their Friday night demons.

Ezra leaned against the bar, shoulders tense, jaw clenched, jawline stubbled and sharp with three days’ worth of not giving a damn. His hand curled around the edge of the counter like he needed something to hold him up.

“Another?” the bartender asked.

Ezra nodded. “Double.”

He wasn’t sure how many drinks he’d had. Enough to numb the ache. Not enough to forget her eyes when she said, “You’ll never be a father, Ezra. You don’t even know who you are.”

That one hurt the most. Not because it was true—but because he wanted to be.

He turned away from the bar and scanned the crowd. Bodies moved like shadows—too close, too loud, too alive. He didn’t belong here. Not tonight. Not with a hole where his future used to be.

“Someone broke your heart.”

Ezra blinked. The voice was smooth, confident, laced with just enough flirt to make him pause.

The man beside him leaned against the bar with practiced ease. Soft brown curls framed a face too pretty to belong here—delicate cheekbones, lips too full for a man, and eyes like twin galaxies. His shirt was black silk, unbuttoned enough to hint, but not promise.

Ezra looked away, swallowing against the sudden dryness in his throat. “Not your business.”

The man chuckled—a low, rich sound that Ezra felt more than heard. “You’re right. Just figured, anyone who glares at a tequila bottle like it owes him child support probably needs a better distraction.”

Ezra snorted despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitching before he could stop it. “You always this nosy?”

“Only when I see someone drowning in their own bravado. What did she do?”

He hesitated, fingering the edge of his shot glass. “Left.”

“Her loss,” the man said easily, and for the first time, there was no flirt, just a simple certainty. “I’m Sebastian, by the way.”

Ezra didn’t answer immediately. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Names made things real. Names meant remembering. Still, something about the way Sebastian said it—like he wasn’t expecting anything in return—made Ezra relent.

“Ezra.”

Sebastian’s smile softened. He tapped the rim of Ezra’s abandoned glass with his finger. “Ezra. Good name. Solid. Like you could build a house with your bare hands.”

Ezra gave him a sideways look. “You profiling me now?”

Sebastian grinned, unbothered. “No. Just observant. And you’re not denying it.”

“You’re annoying,” Ezra muttered, though his lips twitched again.

“You’re still talking to me,” Sebastian replied, taking a sip of his drink—something with citrus and sparkle. Of course. “You thinking about leaving with someone tonight, or just punishing your liver?”

Ezra laughed, short and humorless. “You offering?”

The look in Sebastian’s eyes changed—heat flaring behind the softness. His lashes lowered slightly, and he stepped closer, shoulder brushing Ezra’s. The contact was brief, but it burned like an ember under Ezra’s skin.

“That depends," Sebastian said lowly. "You looking for company, or an escape?”

Ezra’s breath hitched. He was drunk. Hurt. Angry. But Sebastian's presence felt warm, grounding, dangerous in the way cliffs are—beautiful and easy to fall off.

“Escape,” he said hoarsely. “Definitely escape.”

Sebastian took the last sip of his drink, set the glass down with a deliberate clink, and leaned in. The scent of him—something clean, a hint of lavender under the citrus—washed over Ezra like a goddamn memory he hadn't lived yet. His Omega scent was so potent it was almost overwhelming, calling to Ezra’s Alpha instincts, coaxing him closer in a way that was almost too familiar.

“Then come with me.”

They stumbled into Sebastian’s apartment somewhere between midnight and regret. The elevator ride had been tense, silent, save for the slow burn of anticipation winding between them.

Ezra didn’t think. Didn’t want to think. He let his hands roam. Let Sebastian’s mouth trace the outline of his jaw like he already knew the territory.

Sebastian’s apartment was soft light and clean lines. Too elegant. Too personal. Ezra barely registered the artwork on the walls or the plush gray couch before Sebastian pulled him in, fingers hooking in his belt loops like he wasn't willing to let Ezra drift too far.

Their mouths crashed together like waves—hard, frantic, unrelenting. Ezra gripped Sebastian’s hips, surprised by how small he felt, how lithe his waist was. Sebastian tugged Ezra’s shirt up, fingers grazing bare skin, and Ezra growled low in his throat.

“This what you want?” Sebastian murmured, voice rough now, less tease and more truth.

Ezra kissed him in response. Hard. Desperate.

Clothes hit the floor in chaotic rhythm—shirts, belts, shoes. Sebastian’s shoe caught on Ezra’s as he kicked it off, making him stumble a little, and Sebastian laughed breathlessly against his mouth.

"Careful, tough guy," he teased. "Wouldn’t want you spraining something important."

Ezra smirked and caught Sebastian’s chin between two fingers. "Worried about me, Pretty Boy?"

The nickname slipped out—unthinking, raw—and for a beat, Sebastian froze. Then he smiled slow and wicked, a little color blooming high in his cheeks.

"Only if you promise to call me that again."

Ezra didn’t answer. He kissed him instead.

He pushed Sebastian back onto the bed, kissing down his neck with the desperation of a man trying to forget himself. Sebastian arched into him, hands pulling, anchoring.

He tasted like lavender and confidence. Ezra hated how much he liked it.

They moved together, friction and heat and something too honest to be just sex. Ezra lost himself in it. In the sweat. The moans. The sound of his name on someone else's lips for the first time in months.

At one point, Sebastian grabbed Ezra’s hand, twining their fingers together over his head. Ezra barely registered it—too drunk, too lost—but later, he'd remember that grip, the trust in it, how Sebastian, his Omega, had given himself fully to Ezra, unguarded.

When it was over, they lay tangled in silence. Ezra stared at the ceiling, heart thudding, lungs burning. Sebastian's head rested on his chest, breaths steady.

“Still thinking about her?” he asked softly.

Ezra hesitated. “No.”

A pause.

“Good,” Sebastian said. His fingers lightly tapped a pattern against Ezra’s ribs—three beats, a tiny, absentminded rhythm. Ezra didn’t know it yet, but Sebastian would do that whenever he was nervous or thinking.

"You don’t deserve to be haunted."

Ezra closed his eyes.

He woke up to sunlight and a headache.

The first thing he noticed was the ceiling—white and unfamiliar. The second was the warm weight pressed against his side. A male. Still naked. Still asleep.

Ezra sat up, heart pounding. The events of the night before crashed back like a hangover: the bar, the drinks, the kiss, the sex.

“Shit.”

Sebastian stirred. “Morning to you too,” he mumbled, hair a wild halo around his face. His voice was rough, a little amused, like he'd seen this before.

Ezra slid out of bed, grabbing his jeans. “I shouldn’t have—”

Sebastian’s eyes opened slowly, lashes fluttering. “Regretting it already?”

Ezra avoided his gaze, fingers fumbling the zipper on his jeans. “I was drunk.”

“I noticed,” Sebastian said, sitting up and dragging a sheet over himself. “Still, didn’t hear you complain when I had you—”

“Don’t.”

Sebastian raised a brow, but his expression softened. “Touchy.”

Ezra pulled his shirt on inside-out and cursed under his breath. “I’m not—this isn’t—” He stopped. He didn’t know what this was. But he knew he couldn’t stay.

Sebastian didn’t push. “You want coffee or a cab?”

Ezra hesitated. “Cab.”

Sebastian nodded. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Cab app’s on the tablet by the door."

Ezra turned to leave but paused. “You… You’re not gonna tell anyone, are you?”

Sebastian looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Tell who? I’m not twelve.”

Ezra nodded once and left the room. The door clicked shut behind him like punctuation.

Outside, the city felt too bright. Too loud. Ezra lit a cigarette with shaking hands, staring down at the cracked sidewalk. What the hell had he done?

One night. That’s all it was. Just a way to forget.

But Sebastian’s voice lingered like a melody. You don’t deserve to be haunted.

Ezra didn’t know how to feel about that.

Didn’t know how to feel about any of it.

He wasn’t attracted to men, for crying out loud.

So he walked away, jaw set, heart heavy.

And told himself it didn’t matter.

That he'd never see Sebastian again.

That forgetting was enough.