One Night with My Ex's Billionaire Best Friend

The champagne bottle sweats in my hand, condensation dripping between my fingers like the hours I spent picking out this lingerie.

Three years. Three years of loving Ethan Cole, and I’m about to surprise him two days early for our anniversary because waiting felt impossible. The red lace under my coat cost more than my grocery budget, but his face when he sees it will be worth every penny.

I should’ve called first.

The elevator climbs to his penthouse, each floor ticking by while my heart hammers against my ribs. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. I practiced my smile in the car. Sultry. Confident. The woman who knows she’s loved.

God, I’m an idiot.

The doors slide open. His hallway smells like expensive cologne and old money, the kind that reminds you you don’t belong here. I’ve been here a hundred times, but tonight my heels feel too loud on the marble. I shift the champagne to my other hand, fish out the key he gave me six months ago.

“For emergencies,” he’d said.

“Or surprises,” I’d answered.

He’d kissed me then. Told me he loved me. I believed him.

The lock turns smooth and silent. I ease the door open, already imagining his shock, his laugh, the way he’ll pull me close and tell me I’m crazy. In a good way. Always in a good way.

Then I hear it.

Laughter. High and bright and definitely not his.

My stomach drops. The champagne bottle turns to ice in my grip.

“Ethan, stop.” A woman’s voice. Playful. Breathless.

I know that voice.

No. No, no, no.

My feet move without permission, carrying me past the kitchen, past the living room with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The bedroom door sits half open, spilling golden light into the hallway.

I should leave. I should turn around, walk out, pretend I was never here.

Instead, I move closer.

“You’re terrible,” the voice says, and I place it now. Vanessa. His colleague. The one he swore was just a friend, just someone from work, nothing to worry about.

“You love it,” Ethan says, and there’s something in his voice I’ve never heard. Raw. Hungry.

He’s never sounded like that with me.

My phone is in my hand. I don’t remember pulling it out. The camera app opens, my thumb shaking so badly I nearly drop it. Through the crack in the door, I see them.

Ethan’s bare back. Vanessa’s red nails dragging down his shoulders. The sheets I helped him pick out twisted around their legs.

Click. The phone captures it.

My hands won’t stop shaking. The image blurs. Click. Another photo. Click. Click. Click.

Evidence. I need evidence. Because tomorrow he’ll lie. He’ll say I imagined it, that I’m paranoid, that I don’t trust him enough.

“I’ve wanted this for months,” Vanessa says.

“Me too.” Ethan’s voice. Easy. No guilt. “She’s so, God, she’s so boring lately. Always working, always tired. You’re…”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.

The champagne bottle slips from my hand.

I catch it before it hits the floor, but the movement costs me. My coat brushes the doorframe. The softest whisper of fabric against wood.

Ethan’s head turns.

Our eyes meet.

For one impossible second, the world stops. His face goes white. His mouth opens. Vanessa gasps, scrambling for the sheet.

I don’t wait to hear his excuses.

I spin and run. My heels catch on the rug. I kick them off, leaving them behind like everything else I thought we had. The anniversary gift, wrapped in silver paper, sits on the kitchen counter where I left it. A watch. Engraved with the date we met.

I grab my purse. Leave the gift. Leave the key next to it, the metal clinking against marble like a door closing.

“Ariana, wait!” Ethan’s voice behind me. Panicked now. “It’s not what you think!”

It never is.

I slam my palm against the elevator button. Once. Twice. Nothing happens.

“Please, let me explain.” Closer now. I hear his footsteps.

The elevator dings. The doors open. I throw myself inside and jab the lobby button like it might save my life.

Ethan appears in the hallway, pulling on pants, his hair still messed from her fingers.

“Ariana, don’t do this. We can talk about this. I love you.”

The doors start to close.

“I love you,” he says again, and the raw edge in his voice almost breaks me.

Almost.

“No,” I say. My voice sounds dead. Hollow. “You don’t.”

The doors shut on his face.

I make it to the lobby before the shaking starts. Make it to my car before the tears come. Make it three blocks before I have to pull over because I can’t see through the blur.

My phone buzzes.

**Ethan: Where did you go? We need to talk.**

I stare at the message. At the photos in my camera roll. At three years of texts and memories and lies I was too stupid to see.

Another buzz.

**Ethan: Ariana, please. You’re overreacting.**

Overreacting.

I turn off my phone.

The Celestial Hotel towers ahead, its golden lights promising expensive anonymity. The kind of place where nobody asks questions. Where you can disappear into crystal glasses and leather booths and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.

I park. Walk inside. My coat hangs open over the lingerie I wore for a man who’s probably back in bed with her by now.

The bar sits tucked in the corner, all dark wood and darker secrets. I slide onto a stool.

“Whiskey,” I tell the bartender. “Neat.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t ask if I’m okay. Just pours.

The first drink burns. The second one less. By the third, my hands have stopped shaking.

By the fourth, I notice him.

Three seats down. Dark suit, darker hair. He hasn’t looked at me once, but I feel his presence like a live wire humming in my peripheral vision.

He lifts his glass. Takes a slow sip.

My phone buzzes in my purse. I ignore it.

The man signals the bartender. Says something too quiet to hear. The bartender nods, pours a glass of scotch, amber and neat, and slides it in front of me.

I look at the stranger.

He still doesn’t meet my eyes. Just raises his own glass slightly. A silent acknowledgment.

“Whatever you’re running from,” he says, his voice low and rough enough to scrape against something raw inside me, “it’ll still be there tomorrow.”

He finally looks at me. Dark eyes. Sharp jaw. The kind of face that belongs on magazine covers, not hotel bars.

“Might as well enjoy tonight.”

I should thank him politely and leave. Should go home, call Sophia, cry into ice cream like a normal person.

Instead, I pick up the scotch.

Our eyes hold.

“To bad decisions,” I say.

His mouth curves. Not quite a smile. Something more dangerous.

“The only kind worth making.”

I drink. He drinks.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice whispers that I’m about to do something I can’t take back.

I silence it with another sip.