Chapter1

Audrey's POV:

Sunlight pierced through the gap in the curtains, slicing across my face like a blunt blade. My eyelids fluttered open, immediately protesting the invasion of morning. A rhythmic throbbing pulsed behind my temples—the unmistakable calling card of a massive hangover.

Where am I?

The question hung in the air as I stared at an unfamiliar, ornate ceiling. I attempted to shift, but a wave of soreness washed over my muscles, a dull ache that whispered of a night my memory hadn't yet reclaimed.

I turned my head slowly and froze.

A man lay peacefully beside me. Even in sleep, his features were strikingly sharp—a prominent nose, a strong jawline, and thick lashes that cast shadows over his cheekbones. The pristine white sheet was draped haphazardly over him, revealing the powerful lines of his shoulders.

I squeezed my eyes shut, praying this was a hallucination brought on by Finley’s "going-away" shots. When I opened them again, the man was still there. I pinched my arm hard. The sharp sting confirmed the worst: this was reality.

My gaze darted around the room. Our clothes were scattered across the plush carpet like debris after a storm. Oh God. What have I done?

Fragments of the night began to surface in disjointed, dizzying flashes. I remembered Finley insisting on "one last drink" before my flight back home. I remembered the elevator ride, the spinning hallway, and stumbling into this room in the dark, thinking it was mine.

I recalled seeing a figure on the bed and, in my alcohol-induced haze, assuming it was a prank. I remembered leaning over him, poking his cheek, and giggling. "Mission accomplished, okay? You can go report back to Finley now..."

Then, a strong hand had caught my wrist. I remembered falling forward, the scent of expensive cologne and cedarwood enveloping me. I remembered staring into eyes that looked like a stormy sea—deep, commanding, and dangerously magnetic.

The memory blurred after that—a whirlwind of heat, ragged breathing, and an impulsive surrender to a stranger’s touch. It was so unlike the composed, professional Audrey Lane.

Panic, cold and sharp, set in. I needed to get out before he woke up. I couldn't face the crushing awkwardness of a "morning after" with a man whose name I didn't even know.

I scrambled out of bed, grabbing my clothes with trembling hands. I didn't dare look in the mirror; I knew I looked like a woman fleeing the scene of a disaster. After dressing in the bathroom with frantic haste, I lingered by the door, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I couldn't just leave without a word, but I couldn't stay. I dug through my purse, searching for something to signal that this was a one-time mistake. All I found was a single hundred-pound bill.

It’ll have to do, I thought grimly, placing the note on the bedside table. It was a clear, if insulting, message: This was a transaction. Nothing more. Don't find me.

An hour later, I was in a taxi heading to the airport. I leaned my forehead against the cool window, watching London’s skyline fade into the morning mist. My body still felt the ghost of his presence, a lingering warmth I desperately tried to suppress.

Tomorrow, I would be back in my home country. I would be the professional Audrey Lane again—in control and unshakeable. This night of madness would remain a secret, buried in a hotel room in London.

I would never see that man again. Or so I told myself.