Chapter 2: Suite 2703

~Sophia's POV~

“Another round for everyone! Courtesy of the pretty lady at the bar!"

A thunderous crack was heard from the bartender's voice.....

Every head turned toward me.

Every cheer rattled the walls.

Each glass rose into the air.

And just like that, my quiet corner of misery became the center of attention.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

"Cheers to the queen of generosity!" a man shouted from behind.

Another individual yelled, "Why don't you just make tequila?".

The place erupted with laughter. I lifted my glass, smirked, and muttered under my breath, "Yeah, cheers to me. The idiot funding everyone’s happiness tonight."

The shot was hot and sharp. It burned—like everything else lately.

The bar buzzed with energy, everyone still riding the high of Xavier St. Clair’s Grand Prix victory. I caught bits and pieces of their chatter—how it all came down to the final lap, his rival right on his tail, engines roaring like monsters before he hit the pedal and tore across the finish line. The crowd had gone wild, they said.

Meanwhile, I kept drinking like it was water. The laughter and voices around me blurred into noise.

'What an extraordinary man,' I thought bitterly. 'Loved by everyone. Someone like that would never end up as pathetic as me.'

In that moment, it felt like I was the only unlucky soul in the world. The words tasted as bitter as the whiskey.

I used to wonder why anyone liked alcohol—it was so bitter. Tonight, I finally understood, just a little.

The waiter leaned. "Miss, are you sure that you want to keep going?You've had..."

"Too little," I cut him off, fishing Damin’s gold card from my purse. "Don’t worry. My boyfriend’s wallet can handle it."

"Alright, but—"

"Put it on the card," I said sharply. Then, quieter, "Please."

He appeared softer, but didn't speak.

I didn’t wait for him to answer. The weight in my chest eased with every sip, but my head spun and my vision blurred. Maybe it was time to go home.

Home? The one I shared with Damin. Definitely not Kiara’s either—I wasn’t ready to face her. I pushed off the barstool, almost tripping over my own heels, and stumbled toward the door.

“Presidential suite,” I slurred, leaning on the counter of one of New York’s most luxurious hotels. “It’s under the name Damin.”

With a courteous smile, she seemed to be looking at me and others who were running away from an unseen danger every night.

In just a few moments, I was in that lift as the mirror walls were reflecting light and flickering with my reflection. Smudged mascara, frizzy hair and tired eyes....

“Pull yourself together,” I whispered to the stranger in the mirror.

She didn't listen.

When the elevator dinged, I was met with an extended carpeted hallway that smelled like money and secrets.

Suite 2703.

The door was already ajar. Without thinking, I walked right in.

A man stepped out of the bathroom—broad-shouldered, a towel hanging low around his hips, water droplets sliding down his chest and abs.

“Wow,” I murmured under my breath. “Didn’t know presidential suites came with this kind of service. Well… if it’s mutual, why not? He’s way hotter than Damin anyway. Those abs, those arms—god, look at that body…”

“How did you get in here? Where’s security?” he asked, towel-drying his hair.

I had no idea what he was up to. I lowered my head. "You're trying to ask about real people, right? Haven't seen any on my way here."

He let out a deep breath and pulled smudged his hair. "Alright, I guess you're here for an autograph. A picture? One of my shirts?" He paused and then continue, "did my PR manager overlook the fact that I am participating in a charity auction?"

He said it with that trademark smirk—arrogant, casual, infuriatingly attractive.

I took a few wobbly steps closer. “You talk too much for someone half-naked.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m drunk,” I said simply. “And you’re—” I waved at him vaguely, “—obnoxiously shirtless.”

In French, he whispered something that seemed like a curse. It was quite pleasant.

I giggled, "that sounded sexy. Say it again."

The man strayed in his tracks, uncertain about whether to throw me out or call security. "You should probably go before you regret this."

“Too late,” I murmured.

Without any response from him, I stumbled and fell upon. It was quite an experience. I placed my hands on his chest, feeling the warmth that was hot inside my palms. He caught me by surprise, with one arm resting on my waist.

“Whoa,” he said, steadying me. “Careful.”

"Why?" I muttered. "You seem to be capable of handling some chaos."

The darkness was in his eyes. “You really don’t know what you’re doing, do you?”

"Oh, I know exactly what I'm doing." My fingers traced the water beading on his abs. "I'm making a terrible decision. But for once, it's mine."

Something flickered in his eyes, that could have been indicative of amusement, disbelief, or even desire.

I kissed him.

It wasn't graceful, it wasn't gentle; it was messy and desperate and way too real.

He froze for a heartbeat. Then his grip on my waist tightened, tugging me closer. His lips moved against mine-hot, sure, commanding. The kind of kiss that eradicates all thought.

The towel around his hips had loosened a fraction, and the air between us was electric.

I forgot where I was. Who I was. I only knew the taste of him—salt, heat, danger.

He broke the kiss first, breathing hard, forehead pressed against mine. "You're drunk," he said quietly.

“I’m alive,” I whispered back. “There’s a difference.”

His hand hovered at my waist, uncertain. His eyes, sharp and blue and beautiful, searched mine like he tried to read a language that didn't make sense anymore.

Somewhere behind us, the city glittered through open curtains. The door was still wide open, the hallway empty.

I leaned closer, my voice barely a breath. "If you're going to stop me, do it now."

He didn't move. The silence stretched-thick, charged, dangerous. Then, without another word, he kissed me again. And this time neither of us cared who might be watching.