Ch 3: The morning After

The first thing I felt was the pounding in my skull.

I opened my eyes slowly immediately assaulted by filtered sunlight streaming through sheer curtains. I groan and roll onto my other side away from the sun—judgmental spotlight. I groan and roll onto my other side, turning away from the sun—

—and nearly scream.

There’s a figure in the bed beside me.

A person. Sprawled out, half-buried in the blanket, a mess of long, dark hair completely obscuring their face like something straight out of a low-budget horror movie.

Then the figure groans.

The hair shifts just enough for me to catch a glimpse of a familiar scowl.

“Oh my God, Cassidy,” I exhale, dropping back onto the pillow. “You scared the crap out of me.” I mutter to myself because she wasn’t awake.

Relaxing back on the sheets which are too soft to belong anywhere I could afford.

I shut my eyes the migraine acting up again. My mouth tasted of tequila—oh my gosh.

“I’m married!.” I scream sitting up too fast. A spike of pain lance through my head.

“Who’s married?!.” Cassy shouts sitting up from beside me her eyes still closed in sleep.

I freeze as everything came back in slow, horrible flashes—the chapel, the ring, the signature. The contract. And it didn’t forget to bring Panic with it. I clutched my temples and blinked around the room.

Marble floors. A crystal vase of white roses on the side table. A silk robe clinging to me like guilt. And on my left hand, a diamond that can pay off my student loans three times over.

I don’t know whether to cry or laugh.

Cassidy groans form beside me and flop onto her back with a dramatic sigh. “My brain is soup,” she mumbled. As it should be. “Why is the sunlight so aggressive?”

I didn’t respond to her.

I watch her open her eyes and sit up, supporting her head with her hands.

“JESUS—“

“It’s me” I inform her deadpan.

“You scared me, you look like a cursed Victorian doll” says someone that gave me a jump-scare few minutes ago.

Cassidy blinked. “Where are we?”

“In a suite.”

“Did we kill anyone?.” She asked panicked.

“No.” I still respond mindless facing the ceiling.

“Oh thank God.” She collapsed back onto the pillow.

Cassidy turned her head slowly. Her eyes narrowed. “Wait…Why do you look you made horrible decisions...like get married?”

I keep staring at her patiently waiting for her memories to come.

“Oh no—“ she gasp “Oh no no no—“

“Did you actually—did I dream that chapel?!”

“You didn’t.”

Cassidy sat up so fast she got dizzy and immediately laid back down. “Holy shit!You got married. For real.” She lets out a strangled laugh. “You are in big trouble missy.” Her voice still scratchy and half asleep.

“No, we are in big trouble.” I correct.

There’s a knock at the door.

We freeze like two raccoons caught stealing glitter glue.

Cassidy whispers, “Is it the police?”

“For what? Marriage fraud?”

“I don’t know how the law works!”

Another knock, this time more polite.

Cautiously, I shuffle over—still in my borrowed silk robe—and crack the door open.

A hotel staff member stands there in a black vest, holding a silver tray like we’re in Downton Abbey. On the tray is a thick envelope and something that looks suspiciously like a black credit card.

“Delivery for Mrs. Thorne,” he says, without even blinking.

I take the tray with all the grace of someone holding a live grenade. “Thanks.”

He nods and walks away like this is just another Tuesday.

I shut the door, turn, and stare at Cassidy.

“Mrs. Thorne,” she repeats slowly, then loses it, face buried in a throw pillow to muffle her scream.

I open the envelope. Inside is a crisp white note, written in neat, sharp handwriting

3:00. Penthouse. Don’t be late. —A

There’s also a room key and a card that says “Thorne Enterprises” in clean silver font.

And—oh—there’s a second note, scribbled in a different hand

The dress is in the closet. Change!

I glance up.

Cassidy’s lying flat on the floor now, moaning. “You married a rich, hot, mysterious billionaire. You’re in a novella.”

“Billionaire is too far,” I whisper, staring at the card.

“Girl he owns this hotel, what more could that mean.”

Cassidy crawls to the minibar like she’s been shot and starts searching for aspirin. “Do you think he’s going to, like, expect things? What if you’re actually his bait for his business nemesis?”

I don’t respond. I’m staring at the note like it might explain what kind of life I just woke up in. The air feels heavier. Realer.

The ring is still on my finger.

Cassidy finds a bottle of water and two sad-looking Advil packets. She tosses one at me.

“Okay, okay. Breathe. This is fine. We’re fine. You’re just in a very expensive, morally confusing marriage with a man who signs his notes like a Bond villain.”

I’m too quiet, and she notices.

Her voice softens. “Hey. Are you freaking out?”

“A little.”

Cassidy sits beside me, legs crossed, head tilted.

“Listen. You’re gonna go to this weird billionaire meet-up. I’m gonna be right here, Googling him until I find something horrifying. We’ve handled worse.”

“No we haven’t.”

“Okay but we’ve watched worse happen to other people.”

That earns a small laugh from me.

Cassidy grins. “There she is.”

An hour later, I’m feeling better and dressed. The dress I was given fit me like it was tailored for me.

It stopped in my mid thigh; tight and i couldn’t be able to deny it, good. I didn’t look like how I was feeling in any way.

“You look hot!” Cassy says from behind me when she stepped into the walk in closet.

“I don’t feel good.” I immediately leave not wishing to tarry long.

The elevator hums quietly as it climbs toward the penthouse.

My hands move to the end of my dress pulling it down. I keep staring at my reflections, nervous. A waitress in a rich woman clothes. I laugh at the contrast.

The doors slide open with a gentle chime. I step out into a private corridor. Another set of doors stands at the end, guarded by silence and high-end intimidation.

The elevator dings.

The doors slide open to a private corridor—silent, suffocatingly elegant. The kind of hallway where secrets live in the wallpaper. My heels sink into the thick runner as I step out, my pulse drumming in my ears.

At the end of the hall there are two tall matte black doors.

No number. Just presence.

I approach slowly, heart in my throat, and slide the key card through the reader. The little light flashes green. A soft click.

I grip the handle. Take a breath. And push the door open.

And for a second I forget to breath.

The penthouse is unreal—curated, not decorated. Black marble floors, sculptural lighting, glass walls revealing a skyline bathed in gold. The city sprawls below, glittering, distant.

Real art hangs on the walls. A sleek fireplace sits beneath a recessed screen. On a low table: a crystal decanter, two untouched glasses.

It smells like wealth—leather, cedarwood, and something colder. Power.

I step inside. And I swear I feel it before I see it. As I turn I see him there.

Andrew Thorne.

By the floor to ceiling window, one hand in his pocket, watching the city like it owes him rent. Sunlight carves across his profile: razor-sharp cheekbones, a jaw made for headlines, black hair pushed back in careless waves. His impeccable charcoal suit. Worn like a second skin tailored by obsession.

He turns.

And when his eyes find me—storm gray, unreadable—I forget every cutting line I practiced in the elevator.

His gaze skims down and back up, quiet satisfaction flickering behind his eyes.

There’s no welcome there. Just math.

Like I’m not a woman. I’m a variable.

He doesn’t move, but his press is very much noticed. Stillness with teeth. A glance at his watch. Then, finally;

“You’re late.”

He spoke with a silk-soft cadence, every word carefully chosen.

My mouth opens. Nothing.

He tips his chin toward the glass table. One chair pulled out. Waiting.

“Sit.”