One Night with a Billionaire

Daphne

The first thing I felt was pain. Not sharp, just a deep, throbbing ache that pulsed behind my eyes like an alarm I couldn’t turn off. My mouth was dry, my throat raw, and every sound in the room seemed louder than it should be.

For a moment, I didn’t move. I just lay there, letting the unfamiliar softness beneath me register. This wasn’t my bed. My sheets weren’t silk. My apartment didn’t smell faintly of cologne and expensive wine.

Something twisted in my stomach. I forced my eyes open.

Light filtered through tall windows, pale and golden against the cream walls. A jacket hung over a chair, dark and perfectly tailored. Beside me, a white dress shirt lay half-crumpled on the floor. My heart began to race.

Bits of the night started coming back in fragments, like pieces of a dream I wasn’t sure I wanted to remember.

Music.

Laughter.

A glass in my hand that kept being refilled.

Someone’s hand at the small of my back.

A pair of dark eyes watching me like they already knew what I was running from.

I sat up too quickly, the room tilting for a second before it settled. The blanket slipped down, and that’s when I realized I was naked. Completely, undeniably naked.

Panic clawed its way up my chest. I grabbed the sheet and clutched it to myself, my gaze flicking to the figure lying beside me.

A man.

He was turned slightly away, one arm bent under his head, the other resting over the pillow where I’d been. His hair was dark, a little messy from sleep, and the morning light caught on the sharp line of his jaw. He looked unreal, like someone who didn’t belong in the same world as me.

And then I saw his face clearly.

I stopped breathing.

Zachary Moreau.

Even people like me, who lived on scholarships and instant noodles, knew that name. The heir to Moreau International. Every business headline, every glossy magazine, every charity gala. The kind of man you read about but never meet.

Except I had.

Last night.

Oh God.

My pulse thundered in my ears. What had I done?

I tried to think past the blur, past the heat and the music and the taste of champagne. I remembered my friend tugging at my wrist, telling me to loosen up, to live a little. Just one night, Daphne, she’d said. One night to forget about everything.

And now here I was, in a stranger’s bed, except he wasn’t just any stranger.

He was Zachary Moreau.

I didn’t belong here. I didn’t belong anywhere near him.

Quietly, I slid out of bed, careful not to wake him. My dress was on the floor, wrinkled and missing a strap. My heels were by the door. My dignity was somewhere in between. I got dressed as fast as I could, ignoring the sting of tears pressing behind my eyes.

This wasn’t me. I wasn’t the kind of girl who went to parties, who drank too much, who ended up in a billionaire’s penthouse without remembering how she got there.

I stole one last look at him before I left. He looked peaceful, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths, completely unaware that my entire world had tilted off its axis.

I turned away.

Maybe it was better this way. Better if he never knew. Better if I forgot this ever happened and went back to my real life, my quiet life. After all, what was one night to someone like him?

I slipped out of the room and closed the door behind me, the soft click echoing louder than it should have.

Outside, the city was just waking up. The streets glowed faintly from the rain that must have fallen overnight. The air was cold, biting against my skin, but I didn’t mind. I just kept walking, my heels clicking against the pavement, pretending that my heart wasn’t still back there in that room.

By the time I reached the corner, I promised myself I’d never think about Zachary Moreau again.

Of course, I had no idea how impossible that promise would be.