2

ISABELLA

I woke up in a bed that wasn’t mine.

The sheets were silk, cool against my bare skin, so smooth they felt like liquid luxury. For a long second, I lay there, my mind tangled in the fog of sleep, my body sore in places I hadn’t felt in a long time. Then, like a slap to the face, it hit me.

I’d let a man have his way with me. Without a fight. No overthinking, no self-sabotage, no last-minute exit strategy. Just... me, him, and a night of reckless passion.

I exhaled sharply and turned over, expecting to see him beside me, but the bed was empty. A tiny, pathetic part of me was relieved. Because if he were still here, wide awake, looking at me like a mistake he didn't want to make again, I wouldn’t have known what to say.

I sat up, clutching the sheets to my chest, and glanced around. The suite was massive. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows that displayed a breathtaking city view, the kind you only saw in magazines. The morning light poured in, illuminating sleek, modern furniture, all in deep, masculine tones—charcoal greys, blacks, and rich browns.

To my left, a sitting area featured an L-shaped couch so big it could double as a guest bed. A glass coffee table sat in front of it, a whiskey decanter perched on top, next to an expensive-looking watch.

Sports memorabilia decorated the walls—signed jerseys framed in black, a gleaming trophy in a glass case, and an autographed basketball on a shelf. The man I’d slept with wasn’t just rich. He was someone. An athlete, maybe. Or someone who lived and breathed sports.

A ridiculous laugh bubbled in my throat. Only I would have a one-night stand with someone wildly out of my league and not even get his name.

I got out of bed, my legs still unsteady. Spotting my crumpled dress on the floor, I pulled it on, wincing as I smoothed out the wrinkles. My worn-out shoes were by the couch, and my tattered purse was on the marble counter near the minibar. Grabbing them, I took one last look around before making my exit.

I stepped into the elevator, inhaling the faint scent of cologne that clung to my skin. The ride down was silent, but the second the doors slid open, I was reminded of exactly where I was.

The lobby oozed wealth. A massive chandelier hung overhead, its crystals catching the light. The air smelled of fresh roses, expensive perfume, and polished wood. People moved with an effortless grace.

I pulled my purse strap higher, suddenly hyper-aware of my cheap dress, the smudged eyeliner under my eyes, the way I stuck out like a sore thumb.

The doorman gave me a once-over but didn’t say anything as I slipped outside. Cold air hit my skin, waking me up completely.

Time to go home.

Home wasn’t a high-rise hotel with a view of the skyline. It wasn’t silk sheets, crystal chandeliers, or whiskey decanters.

It was a cramped apartment in a building that smelled of fried food and regret and so much misery I wanted to barf at the thought of it. I had only spent one night away from my home, and I felt the difference and didn't want to return.

As I walked through the streets, the shift in the atmosphere was jarring. The roads were cracked, littered with cigarette butts and crushed soda cans. Streetlights flickered weakly, barely illuminating the figures loitering on corners.

A group of men whistled as I passed.

“Where you going, mami?” one called, his voice thick with suggestion.

I ignored him, walking faster.

“Hey, don’t be like that,” another chuckled. “We just wanna talk.”

I turned a corner, heart pounding. This wasn’t the life I envisioned. I’d come here chasing something better, yet here I was—dodging catcalls in a neighbourhood that felt more like a trap than a stepping stone.

Finally, I reached my building. The moment I saw my door, my stomach sank. A bright orange notice was taped to it.

FINAL NOTICE: RENT PAYMENT IMMEDIATELY OR EVICTION WILL PROCEED.

I groaned, ripping it down. Of course. Because one night of pleasure meant reality had to slap me twice as hard.

I stepped inside, tossing my purse on the couch. The walls were thin, so I could hear my neighbour yelling at someone over the phone. The faucet in my kitchen dripped, the air smelled faintly of mildew, and the ceiling had a crack that grew longer every time it rained.

Collapsing onto my bed, I stared at the ceiling.

I needed a better job.

****

And for the next few days, I job-hunted like my life depended on it—because it did.

I scoured online listings, handed out resumes, and even considered picking up extra shifts at the bar. Just when I was about to lose hope, an agency posted a vacancy. I applied immediately, and by some miracle, I got an email.

Interview scheduled for tomorrow.

For the first time in weeks, I went to bed with a little bit of hope.

The next morning, I dressed in the best outfit I could put together—cheap but decent. It wasn’t a designer, but it was clean, pressed, and made me look employable.

The agency’s lobby was sleek, modern, and definitely somewhere rich people visited. Why did everything remind me of my impoverished life? I almost let the thought weigh me down enough to have me turning back and going home, but I beat it out of my system and approached the receptionist, a blonde woman who barely looked up from her nails.

“Excuse me,” I said politely. “I’m here for an interview. Where should I wait?”

She glanced at me, lips curling in distaste. “Sit anywhere. If they bother calling you.”

I blinked. “Right. Thanks for the warm welcome.”

She scoffed, turning away.

Before I could sit, a woman rushed in, clipboard in hand. She looked frazzled, eyes scanning the room until they landed on me.

“You,” she said. “Come with me.”

I hesitated. “Me?”

“Yes, you. The old cleaner left without a word, and there’s a lot to do.”

I stared at her. Then at my clothes. Then back at her.

Oh.

She thought I was the cleaner.

I let out a breathy laugh, looking down at myself. Well, that was humbling. And she was definitely right.

“Um,” I said, “I thought there would be an interv—”

“How soon can you start?” she interrupted.

I sighed. “Right now, I guess.”

“Great. Let’s go.”

Turns out, the job paid more than my previous ones combined. I wasn’t about to complain.

The staff, however, sucked. Most were snobby, looking at me like I was invisible. But I kept my head down, focused on scrubbing floors, wiping down desks, and pretending I wasn’t dying inside.

By the end of my shift, exhaustion clung to me like a second skin. I grabbed my bucket, ready to leave when I heard a voice.

It was deep, commanding, and so damn familiar. I felt myself being transported back to that night.

I froze.

My stomach flipped, a strange déjà vu sweeping over me. I knew that voice.

Slowly, I turned the corner and crashed straight into him. It was the man from that night. The nameless man I had let seduce me, and I damn well recognised him.

“Shit.”