Chapter Two

Elena

Sunlight knifes through the curtains and I jolt awake with my pulse already sprinting.

For half a second I have no idea where I am. Then the sheets register—stupidly soft, expensive, the kind of cotton that costs more than my phone bill—and the heat of the body next to me slams the rest of it home.

Oh hell.

I slept with him. The stranger. The actual definition of a one-night stand.

I have literally never done this. I’m the person who buys the same brand of toothpaste for eight years because switching feels risky. I own a label maker. My idea of living dangerously is eating sushi on a Tuesday.

My dress is a crumpled heap by the dresser. My bra is dangling off a sconce like it’s trying to escape. There are two empty champagne flutes on the nightstand that I do not remember drinking, and a faint purple bruise on my thigh that is 100 percent from when he lifted me onto the desk and—

Nope. Brain, we are not doing the highlight reel right now.

I sneak a glance at the clock: 6:47 a.m.

Interview at nine. Blackwood Enterprises. The job I have been dreaming about since I was twenty-three and broke and crying over student loans. The job that could finally get Abuela into the good rehab place, the one with the gardens and the physical therapists who actually show up.

I have to get out of here. Like, yesterday.

I start inching toward the edge of the bed, moving in slow motion so the mattress doesn’t rat me out. He doesn’t stir. Breathing slow and steady, one arm flung out like he’s still reaching for me even in his sleep.

God, he’s pretty when he’s unconscious. Hair messy, lashes ridiculous, that stupid perfect mouth relaxed. In daylight he looks younger. Less like money and more like trouble I can’t afford.

I find my dress, wriggle into it commando because the bra is officially a lost cause. Shoes by the door—miracle. Clutch on the console. Phone, wallet, keys. Check, check, check.

I’m two steps from freedom when his phone starts blaring some classical ringtone that probably has a Latin name and costs extra on iTunes.

I freeze.

He groans, slaps around the nightstand. I use the noise as cover, slip out, and pull the door shut with the softest click I can manage.

The hallway is dead quiet. My heels sink into carpet thick enough to muffle gunshots. I don’t breathe until the elevator doors close and I’m staring at forty-three floors of my own walk-of-shame reflection.

Hair: disaster. Lipstick: extinct. Neck: suspicious red mark I really hope is just from the pillow.

I look exactly like a woman who had very loud, very excellent sex and then panicked.

The lobby is already busy—suits, briefcases, people who definitely did not spend the night making bad decisions. No one even glances at me. I keep my chin up and stride out like I belong.

Outside, October air smacks me awake. I buy the biggest coffee the cart guy has, dump in four sugars, and chug it while speed-walking to the subway. My feet are screaming. My head is pounding. My thighs are reminding me of positions I didn’t know existed.

I have forty-five minutes to turn myself back into Elena Martinez, Responsible Human.

Shower so hot it hurts. Scrub until I smell like drugstore coconut instead of his cologne. Hair in a low bun that says “I have my life together.” Gray suit, white blouse, earrings so small they’re basically whispers. I look like I’ve never had a reckless thought in my life.

I triple-check my bag: résumé, portfolio, the campaign deck I stayed up until 3 a.m. perfecting for the last month. Everything is there.

I can do this. One night does not get to ruin everything I’ve worked for.

The subway is packed. I wedge myself into a corner and try not to replay the way he said “stay” against my shoulder at 4 a.m., voice rough and sleepy and way too tempting.

Blackwood Tower is all sharp angles and glass, looming like it’s personally judging my life choices. I’ve walked past it a hundred times imagining this exact morning—except in my imagination I was calm and brilliant and definitely not wearing yesterday’s underwear.

Lobby smells like money and lemon polish. I give the receptionist my name. She smiles like she’s never fled a penthouse suite in her life.

“Ninth floor, Ms. Martinez. Someone will meet you.”

Elevator ride feels like an eternity. I smooth my skirt, square my shoulders, paste on the smile I practiced in the mirror for weeks.

The doors open. A woman in a sleek navy suit is waiting.

“Elena? Jennifer Chen, HR. So nice to meet you.”

We shake hands. She’s warm, efficient. “Mr. Blackwood wanted to sit in on the interview himself. He’s running just a couple minutes late.”

Mr. Blackwood. The CEO. In person. This is huge.

I follow her down a hallway that probably costs more per square foot than my apartment. My pulse is thrumming so loud I’m surprised she can’t hear it.

Conference room is all sunlight and panoramic views. I set up my stuff, line everything perfectly parallel, take a sip of water like a normal person who definitely did not have sex against a hotel window last night.

Jennifer’s phone buzzes. “He’s ready. Right this way.”

I turn, smile locked and loaded, hand already out.

And the world tilts sideways.

Because the man walking through the door—in a charcoal suit that fits like it was invented for him, hair still a little messy, blue eyes wide with the same holy-shit expression I’m wearing—is him.

My stranger.

The one whose name I don’t know.

The one who knows exactly what I sound like when I come.

Jennifer beams, completely oblivious. “Elena Martinez, this is Damien Blackwood, our CEO.”

His jaw locks so tight I’m surprised I don’t hear teeth crack.

And every careful, responsible brick I’ve built my life out of?

Just crumbled into dust.