Chapter 30

THEA

I wake up to silence.

No pounding music. No clinking glasses. No murmured voices. Just the dull hum of the morning and the sound of my own breathing.

My eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling.

Familiar.

Too familiar.

It’s mine.

This is my ceiling.

My bed.

My room.

How did I—?

My mind is numb. Not foggy… just blank. Like my brain is trying to protect me from remembering whatever the hell happened last night.

I don’t move. I just stay there, cocooned in my sheets, the warmth too heavy, too smothering. My body feels like it’s not mine. My limbs don’t ache, but they feel… used.

What the hell did I do?

I try to recall.

Ezra.

His stupidly perfect face. That damn party. The glass in my hand that kept refilling itself. My own voice. Anger. Almost crying. So horny because of my ovulation. Leaning too close. Flirting like I’d lost my mind.

And then—

Fuck.

I throw the covers off like they’re on fire.

My dress is still on.

A rush of relief.

I try to get out of the bed, my bare aching thighs rubbing together. 

My… my underwear?

Gone.

I know I wore them.

I know what I said. What I begged him to do.

My pulse spikes, and panic punches me right in the chest.

Oh God.

I scramble off the bed and stumble to the mirror like the truth will be written on my face.

Smudged makeup.

Hair tangled like a hopeless bird nest.

Lips… swollen, painful.

And I feel it—between my thighs, in the ache in my bones.

It wasn’t a dream.

It happened.

And worst of all, I asked for it.

I asked him to touch me.

I don’t know whether to cry or scream or crawl back into bed and pretend none of it ever happened.

I lean against the dresser, trying to catch my breath.

What if I threw myself at him and he said yes out of pity?

What if I begged and he took advantage?

What if I wanted it and still feel like a stranger in my own skin?

Why the hell did he bring me here?

Why didn’t he just—

I squeeze my eyes shut.

I don’t know what’s worse—not knowing what happened after or knowing what I did before.

And Ezra?

That arrogant, unreadable, dangerously intoxicating bastard?

He’s probably out there somewhere, pretending nothing happened just like when he kissed me.

When he kissed me.

The sob comes out of nowhere.

One minute I’m staring at my reflection like I don’t know who I am anymore, and the next, I’m sliding down to the floor, knees to my chest, hands over my mouth as the tears just fall.

This is what alcohol does.

Bad decisions wrapped in temporary confidence.

Why did I even do it?

Why did I beg him?

Me.

Composed, controlled, cold when needed—reduced to a desperate, drunk woman who couldn’t keep her damn legs—or lips—to herself.

I cry harder, shoulders shaking, and all I can think about is how I always stay quiet to keep the peace. How I swallowed myself whole to keep Sebastian happy. How I gave Finn the last piece of my favorite cookie—the one that’s never enough for me—because being “enough” was never on my to-do list, just being what everyone else needed.

Now I’m sitting here, emotionally wrecked, with no panties and no clue how to fix this.

I stagger to my feet, legs wobbly, tears streaming down my face and I crawl onto the bed, still sniffling, and start searching for my phone like it holds all the answers.

It’s wedged under my pillow.

Figures.

I unlock it with shaky fingers and call Lyra.

She picks up on the third ring, her voice already primed for sass. “So, you fall off the face of the earth again and now you’re crawling back? I swear to God, if you ghosted me to do boring paperwork—”

“What would you do if you begged someone to take you?” I blurt, my voice cracked and raw.

Dead. Silence.

Then— “Wait. What?”

“I fucked up, Lyra!” I wail. “I did the whole slutty eyes, the drunk flirty hands, the please-touch-me routine, and then he did and now I have no panties and too many regrets and my lip looks like I made out with a vacuum cleaner!”

She chokes on a laugh. “Okay. Okay. Breathe. What happened?”

“I slept with my boss,” I say dramatically, flopping onto my mattress like a dying Victorian widow. “Or I think I did. My underwear is missing, my dress is fine, but I feel like I rode a mechanical bull all night and my thighs hate me. Also, I may have asked him to do things. Like, out loud.”

“Didn’t you say the line was starting to blur?” Lyra replies, suspiciously calm. “You like him. I actually feel like this is a good starter.”

“A starter?!” I shriek, sitting up. “He’s the forbidden fruit, Lyra! He’s my boss! My boss! He’s the human version of danger wrapped in Dior cologne! My career is dangling off a cliff wearing stilettos, and you’re calling this a starter?!”

“I mean, it sounds deliciously spicy,” she snorts. “Forbidden fruit is usually the juiciest.”

I groan and cover my face.

I should’ve sent my resignation letter to HR instead of Lyra.

At least, it'll be better to hear that I resigned instead of being sacked.