Sleep With Me Once

Aria's POV

Early the next morning.

The moment I opened my eyes, it felt like my skull had been split open. A dull, throbbing pain pulsed through my head, and my entire body ached like I'd been hit by a truck. Every bone in me seemed to be protesting in agony.

I tried to turn over and go back to sleep, but something beneath me jabbed into my spine, hard and unyielding.

What the hell?

Why did my bed suddenly feel like a slab of concrete?

With a groan, I forced myself upright. My eyelids felt like they weighed a ton. It took everything I had just to sit up. I glanced down—

And froze.

I was completely naked.

Lying on the floor.

"Ah!"

A scream tore from my throat before I could think.

Panic surged like a tidal wave, wiping out all coherent thought. I scrambled to my feet, grabbing the towel from the back of the couch and wrapping it tightly around myself. I looked like a deranged marsupial, stumbling and flailing around the room, desperate for answers I didn't have.

Shame, fear, confusion—they all crashed over me at once, making it hard to breathe.

Then, the bathroom door swung open with a sharp click.

A man stepped out. A stranger. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dressed in nothing but a towel, water still dripping from his hair. His eyes locked on me—cold, sharp, and pissed.

"SHUT UP!" he barked before I could process what I was seeing. He snatched a vase from the table and hurled it at the floor, just inches from my feet.

Crash.

Porcelain shattered, shards skittering across the room.

I flinched, heart thundering, and felt a sharp sting at my heel. I looked down—blood. A red trail began snaking across the floor from the cut on my foot.

"Ah!" I screamed again, this time from the pain.

He stormed over and grabbed me without a word, tossed me onto the mattress like I weighed nothing. Then he shoved a pillowcase into my mouth, his voice low and furious, "I said shut up."

I whimpered, staring up at him in terror. My whole body trembled. There was something in his expression—disgust, yes, but also… something else.

A flicker of familiarity. And just like that, pieces of the night before began to return.

Blinding lights. The bitter burn of alcohol. His face, distant and cold.

He stepped away after a moment, apparently satisfied I wasn't about to lose it again. He picked up a phone, barked out orders with casual indifference. "Send someone to clean the room. Bring up a first aid kit. And breakfast."

Then he turned his back and walked toward the wardrobe, opening it as if I weren't even there.

I lay there, still wrapped in the sheets, trying to pull myself together. My thoughts were a tangled mess. All I knew was, I needed to get dressed. Fast.

I pulled the pillowcase from my mouth and yanked the blanket tighter around me, sitting up slowly. I checked between my legs—no pain, no signs of… violation.

My chest loosened a little. Maybe… maybe nothing happened.

My clothes were crumpled in the corner like they'd been thrown there. I limped to them, wrapped in the blanket, and hurried into the bathroom to get dressed. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Soon, someone had left a first aid kit just outside the door. I sat on the cold tile floor and patched up my foot as best I could. Then I caught my reflection in the mirror—hair a disaster, eyes puffy, skin pale.

I forced myself to breathe, then stepped back into the room.

But the man was gone.

The room was empty.

My eyes drifted to the untouched breakfast on the table. Not a single bite taken. I didn't kid myself into thinking it was meant for me. He didn't strike me as the kind of man who'd offer kindness out of nowhere—especially not after the way he looked at me last night, like I was a problem he couldn't wait to get rid of.

That breakfast wasn't an invitation.

It was a silent message: You know what to do. Leave.

Fine by me.

I didn't want to stay a second longer than I had to. This place—his presence, even in absence—felt like it pressed down on me, thick and suffocating.

Still, before I walked out, I let a quiet word slip into the emptiness.

"Thank you."

I just considered it a thank you to the man who took me in for the night, and left without looking back.

The elevator doors closed behind me, and only then did I finally exhale. The shame, the confusion, the fear that had been crushing me all morning finally began to ease. Just a little.

But my hands were still shaking.

We were out last night promoting alcohol. Coming back drunk wasn't exactly rare. But the way I looked this morning—hair like a bird's nest, rumpled clothes clinging to my body, foot wrapped in gauze—I looked like a walking scandal.

And I had no memory. No way to defend myself if anyone started asking questions.

Of course, the moment I stepped into the locker room, the whispers started.

"…her dress was torn…"

"I told you, there's no way she hits those sales numbers without—"

Their voices slithered into my ears like poison. I clenched my jaw and kept my eyes down, refusing to let the tears win. Who would believe me if I said I spent the night with a man and nothing happened?

Hell, I didn't even believe it myself.

I changed quickly and headed for the door, just wanting to disappear. But as soon as I stepped outside, I heard it:

"Aria!"

It was Hank—my manager—barreling toward me like a freight train. Sweaty, out of breath, his gut bouncing with every step.

"Hank?" I blinked.

"There's… there's a guy out front looking for you!" he wheezed, grabbing my arm. "Real expensive car, too. Brought an entourage! They're waiting at the entrance!"

"What?" I blinked, stunned.

My mind flashed back to the man in the hotel room. Cold eyes. That piercing glare. Was it… him?

My foot throbbed like it remembered too.

Before I could ask anything else, Hank was dragging me outside.

A black Rolls-Royce Cullinan sat at the curb, sleek and menacing like a predator waiting to pounce.

My throat tightened as the car door opened. Men in black suits stepped out—stoic, muscular, definitely bodyguards.

"Boss," one of them said. "She's here."

I couldn't breathe.

Then a polished leather shoe touched the pavement. A tailored trouser leg followed, then the broad figure of a man stepping out of the car like he owned the world.

It was him.

The same man from this morning.

He adjusted the button on his blazer with practiced ease. When his eyes found mine, a chill ran down my spine. Each step he took made the air feel heavier.

I stepped back, trembling. "S-Sir… what do you want?"

He didn't answer. Just flicked his gaze toward the bodyguards.

They closed in, forming a wall around us, blocking out the curious onlookers. The street fell silent.

He turned his gaze back to me, his voice low and biting. "You left without my permission."

What?

I stared at him, stunned. I remembered that sharp "Get out" from the night before. The look of utter disgust on his face.

And now here he was—close, burning hot, his fingers curling around my wrist.

"I… I thought you wanted me gone," I stammered. "Last night… thank you—"

"You SHOULD thank me," he said coolly, leaning in.

Cologne. Warm skin. A dangerous smile.

"You puked all over me."

My head snapped up. Another memory hit me—his furious expression, the sound of ripping fabric, a flash of muscle under soft light—

Oh my god.

The muscle wasn't the point right now!

"I… I can pay for the cleaning—"

"Sleep with me once," he interrupted smoothly. "We'll call it even."

His voice was calm, almost casual.

Like he was asking about the weather.