A Night to Forget

I wasn’t supposed to come back.

I mean, obviously.

Who walks back into the mansion where they just insulted a billionaire, cracked a five-thousand-dollar cake like it was a stress ball, and basically declared war on wealth in a fit of righteous sugar-fueled rage?

Apparently… me.

Because life’s a circus and I’m the clown with a dead motorbike and a soaking-wet bra.

It started with a sputter.

My bike choked halfway down the winding hill like it had swallowed a bee, then coughed one final time before giving up entirely. The kind of dramatic stall that said, No more, girl. You’re on your own.

And then came the storm.

Not rain. Not a gentle mist. No, this was judgment day with lightning.

Wind whipped across my face, slicing through my thin shirt like knives. The sky cracked open with a roar and dumped an ocean straight on my head. Within seconds, I was drenched from scalp to sock seam. Mascara stinging my eyes. Water squishing in my shoes. Dignity? Gone with the wind.

Of course the engine cut out right there.

Of course the nearest gas station was two miles behind me.

And of course, my phone, my lifeline, my everything was dead.

Still. Again. Useless. Like a cursed totem of bad decisions buried in my back pocket.

So there I was.

Stranded.

Soaked.

Shivering like a cartoon chihuahua in a hurricane.

I looked up.

There it was.

The mansion.

Lit like a lighthouse of luxury through the rain. Gilded windows. Velvet curtains glowing behind the glass. The last place on Earth I wanted to crawl back to and the only one not actively trying to kill me with water.

My stomach twisted.

Because this wasn’t just some stranger’s house. It was his. The man with the smirk. The one with the voice like scotch and the judgment of a Supreme Court justice. The one who’d mistaken me for an escort and thrown cash at me like I was a broken vending machine.

I wasn’t going back for him.

I was going back because hypothermia was a worse look than pride.

That’s what I told myself anyway.

I stood at the edge of the driveway, heart pounding, cold rain needling my scalp, when a streak of lightning flashed across the sky, bright and close and too damn personal.

I flinched. My bag slipped off my shoulder. My breath hitched.

Screw it.

Pride was expensive. Hospital bills were worse.

I walked.

Not just the walk of shame.

The squelch of shame.

Because every soaked step made a sound that said, You do not belong here.

My shoes squished. My shirt clung like second skin. My curls frizzed out into something unholy. I probably looked like a soggy raccoon trying to break into a country club.

When I reached the gate, the same security guy glanced at me.

Blank expression. Brief scan.

He didn’t stop me.

Maybe he pitied me.

Maybe I looked too wet to arrest.

Or maybe he knew what I didn’t yet, that I was about to walk straight back into hell wearing regret like perfume.

Either way, he buzzed me in.

No questions.

By the time I got to the side entrance, I was trembling. But not just from the cold. No.

From the dread.

It curled tight in my gut, a dark, sour knot of memory and mistake.

I didn’t know his name.

Didn’t want to.

But somehow, my body betrayed me. My steps were quiet. Too familiar. Too certain for someone just looking for a phone or a towel.

I slipped back through the side hall. Past the flickering candelabras, past the faint echo of jazz and laughter. I told myself I was just looking for help. Just needed to dry off. Recharge. Call a cab.

Leave.

But my feet had a different plan.

They took me back to the hallway I knew too well.

To the heavy doors.

The ones I’d slammed behind me like punctuation. Like closure.

I hovered for a second.

Then I pushed them open.

And there he was.

Standing by the bar. Shirt rumpled, sleeves rolled, tie hanging loose like an afterthought. The suit jacket was gone now. So was the sharp, calculated calm from earlier.

What was left?

Raw edges. Silent fury. A man who looked like he’d torn something apart in his head and hadn’t decided whether to rebuild it… or burn it all down.

He turned.

And the moment our eyes met, I knew...

I had just made my second mistake of the night.

He looked up.

And froze.

The room stilled with him. Like even the walls were waiting to see what he’d do.

His eyes locked onto mine. Cold. Piercing. And something else underneath, something darker. Like restraint hanging by a fraying thread.

"You have a death wish," he said, voice low and razor-sharp.

I blinked against the rain sliding down my lashes. My teeth were beginning to chatter, but I forced the words out anyway. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if I had options.”

His jaw clenched. He stepped toward me. Slow. Controlled.

The kind of slow that said he was deciding whether to throw me out… or set me on fire.

“Most people,” he said, stopping just a breath away, “would leave when they’re told to.”

“Most people,” I snapped, “don’t break down in the middle of a lightning storm after being humiliated, underpaid, and nearly electrocuted by the universe.”

One brow rose. “Are you always this dramatic?”

I glared. “Are you always this arrogant?”

The words cracked like whips between us. No cushion. No pretense. Just heat and fury and breath hanging in the space that separated our bodies by inches.

Too many emotions packed into one storm-drenched room.

Too much tension threaded through every second.

And then we were close.

Too close.

He didn’t touch me. Not yet.

But I could feel him.

His presence swallowed the air. My lungs worked overtime. His gaze raked over me, slow, deliberate. Taking in the water dripping from my curls, the way my soaked shirt clung to my skin, the shake in my arms I couldn’t quite hide.

The air between us shifted. Thickened.

No longer electric with anger.

Now it was… something else.

“You’re drenched,” he said, voice lower this time.

“No shit, Sherlock,” I muttered, hugging my arms across my chest like it could hide the fact that my nipples were basically holding a protest rally beneath my clothes.

He exhaled. Short. Rough. Almost a laugh, but bitter. Like it hurt coming out.

“You always talk like that to men who offer you money?”

“You always insult women just trying to do their damn jobs?”

He stepped even closer. I didn’t back away.

I couldn’t.

Something buzzed in the air. Not just chemistry. Collision.

We weren’t having a conversation. We were circling.

Predator and prey.

Except neither of us seemed to know who was which.

His eyes dropped to my lips. Mine flicked to his jaw, the sharp line of it. The tension in his throat. The way his fingers curled slightly at his sides like he was holding back… something.

My breath caught.

I should’ve left.

I should’ve turned and walked out of that room, soaked or not, pride or not.

But he stepped forward.

And I didn’t move.

His hand brushed my arm. Barely.

A whisper of heat against the chill soaking my skin.

It was enough.

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” he murmured, voice like velvet dipped in warning.

“No,” I breathed. “I don’t. But I’m still here.”

His eyes met mine one last time.

And then...

He kissed me.

Hard. Reckless. Like he hated himself for it but couldn’t stop.

My knees buckled, but he caught me. Pulled me against him like he’d been waiting to do it all night. His mouth was fire. His hands were impatient. My brain went silent and my body took over.

I kissed him back like I wanted to punish him for everything.

For the money. The insults. The cake.

His hand slid to my hip. Mine clawed at his shirt, pulling him closer until I couldn’t tell if the heat came from him or me.

The ruined cake sat behind us on the table like a forgotten witness.

And then I was on that table, lifted, set down gently but urgently.

Buttons popped. Fabric shifted. My skin burned.

He muttered something low against my throat. I didn’t catch it.

Didn’t care.

Because heat replaced rain.

Breath tangled with breath.

And somewhere between the snap of his belt and the rasp of my moans on his tongue, I forgot why I ever hated him.

The next morning

Silence.

Soft sheets. A golden haze filtered through sheer curtains.

I blinked. My head was fogged, cotton-stuffed. My thighs ached.

Warmth beside me.

I turned.

And there he was.

Asleep.

Sprawled on the bed like sin in silk. Bare chest rising slow, one arm thrown over the pillows, face turned toward mine.

I froze.

Oh God.

No. No, no, no.

Memories hit like bricks, hot mouths, whispered curses, his hand gripping the back of my neck, moans breaking from his lips like a prayer he never meant to say.

I slept with him.

I actually, literally slept with the arrogant billionaire I cake-slapped last night.

And now?

I had to get out.

Immediately.

Carefully, I slid out from under the sheets like a thief. My foot caught in the blanket. I untangled it, teeth clenched, heart racing.

Found my shirt on the floor, twisted, damp, shame-stained. My bra was hanging from the lamp like it had a party of its own.

I grabbed everything in trembling hands and didn’t look back.

Not at the bed.

Not at the man in it.

Not at the part of me that had said yes when everything screamed don’t.

I crept across the room.

Every floorboard felt louder than the last.

By the time I reached the door, my throat burned.

I slipped out into the hall.

No note.

No name.

No goodbye.

Just the taste of him still on my lips…

And the sinking knowledge that one night...just one...was about to change everything.