Elle's eyes fluttered open.
Still half-asleep. Brain loading at 3% with no Wi-Fi. Limbs tangled in sheets. Hair is a full ecosystem of chaos—like a crow's nest after a tornado, if the crow had anger issues and hoarded bobby pins.
She blinked.
Blink. Blink.
This wasn't her bed.
This wasn't even her house.
She blinked again, just to make sure this wasn't one of those hyper-realistic dreams where you accidentally marry a prince and ride unicorns into the sunset.
Nope.
Still here.
Still not home.
Still very much—
"AAAGGHHHH!!!" she screamed, clutching her back. "Fuck—it hurts! It feels like a thousand demons are pounding on my spine with spiked mallets!"
Her voice broke halfway through, raw and ragged from the agony.
She sat up—no, she attempted to sit up—before karma smacked her in the face with a gravity check, and she tumbled off the edge of the bed with the grace of a potato rolling down a mountain.
THUD!!
Skin met marble floor. Cold. Smooth. Not comforting.
Her brain did what any rational brain would do in this situation: completely short-circuit.
She looked down.
Blink. Pause. Reload.
Then—
"AaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!"
"I AM NAKED!!!!"
Full volume. Capital letters. Echoed through the room like a demon being exorcised.
She scrambled for the blanket like it was a life raft in the middle of the ocean and wrapped herself like a panic burrito. Her head whipped around the room.
It was massive.
Marble floors. Chandeliers. Art that definitely cost more than her student loans. And no hotel minibar in sight.
"Where the fuck am I—?! This isn't a hotel. This is a palace! A Bond villain lair! Did some rich pervert kidnap me?!"
And then—memory hit her like a lightning bolt to the gut.
The club. The drinks. The dance.
The man.
The blue-eyed, sexy-as-sin, should-be-illegal man.
How he'd picked her up like she weighed nothing. Tossed her on the bed like she was made of feathers and bad decisions. How he'd whispered, right in her ear:
"Don't worry. I'll make sure it hurts less."
"OH MY GOD!!!" she shrieked again, yeeting the blanket into the air like it personally betrayed her. "I DID get kidnapped by a hot billionaire! AND I WAS INTO IT!!"
Clothes. Where were her clothes?! She dashed across the room, one heel on, the other foot bare—a walking disaster in motion. The moment she spotted them, she started throwing them on like her ass was on fire and she couldn't run without being dressed first.
Then she looked for her heel.
"One heel," she muttered like she was narrating her own true-crime documentary. "Where's the other one?! WHERE THE FUCK IS THE OTHER HEEL?!"
She ducked under the table. She yanked open a cabinet. She even stared suspiciously at a very expensive-looking plant. "You hiding it? Huh?! You leafy little bastard?!"
Then—
A voice.
Low. Smooth. Deadly calm.
"ARE YOU LOOKING FOR THIS?"
She froze.
Like she'd just heard Annabelle the doll breathing behind her.
Very slowly… she turned.
And there he was.
Damien Wolfe.
Of course she doesn't know his name.
Towel slung low on his hips. Water dripping from his ink-black hair. Muscles glistening like he just stepped out of a commercial titled This Man Will Ruin Your Life, And You'll Say Thank You.
In one hand? Her missing heel.
"Looking for this, my little rabbit?" he asked again—this time with a mocking lilt, holding up her heel like a shirtless Greek god with a wicked sense of humor.
Elle stared.
At the heel.
Then at his abs.
Then at the heel again.
Then back at the abs.
Then back at the heel—
"MINE—THANK YOU—GOODBYE—!"
She lunged.
Snatched it like Gollum discovering the One Ring and booked it. Sprinting. One-heeled. Hitting the hardwood like a panicked cartoon character escaping a haunted house.
"DON'T CALL ME, DON'T LOOK FOR ME, DON'T SUE ME!" she yelled over her shoulder. "I WAS NEVER HERE!! I'M A MYTH, A LEGEND, A FIGMENT OF YOUR BILLIONAIRE IMAGINATION!!"
The door slammed behind her.
Silence.
Damien stared at the now-empty hallway. The echo of her panicked exit still hung in the air like a slap that hadn't finished echoing. His eyes trailed the small, damp footprints she'd left on the marble floor—chaotic little ghosts of her mad dash to freedom.
And then… he laughed.
Low. Rich. Unhurried.
The kind of laugh that said, Interesting. Very, very interesting.
He took his time toweling off his wet hair, every motion lazy and unbothered, like a man who absolutely knew the world bent around him. As if a woman hadn't just sprinted out of his penthouse wearing one heel, a blanket cape, and the expression of someone who'd just escaped from a haunted asylum.
Still chuckling under his breath, Damien padded barefoot across the room, towel slung low and confidence even lower.
He reached the bedside table, opened the drawer—and there it was. A slim, matte black business card. Slightly bent at the corner. Probably fell out of her purse when she was flinging herself around like a possessed squirrel or—hell—maybe sometime last night. Who knew? He barely remembered taking her heels off. Everything had been a blur of gasps and silk and skin.
He picked the card up between two fingers and read:
Elle Carter. Senior Communications Strategist. Veritas PR & Media Solutions
His brow lifted, just a fraction.
"Well, well," he murmured, tapping the card against his lip. "Not just chaos and curves. She has a brain too…"
His gaze flicked toward the framed wall across the room where the Veritas PR logo hung gleaming in silver. "...and that, in my company."
He flipped the card. Handwritten on the back, in bold blue ink—half-messy, half-wise-ass:
"Don't trust a man with perfect hair. He's hiding something."
Damien's smile deepened, sharp and slow like velvet over a blade.
"Duly noted, Miss Carter."
He tossed the card lightly onto the table and strolled to his phone. A few taps, and his assistant picked up immediately, her voice crisp, efficient, and unflinchingly composed—she'd seen all kinds of Damien Wolfe emergencies.
"Mr. Wolfe?"
"Find out everything you can about Elle Carter," he said smoothly, standing before the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city skyline glittering like diamonds spilled over darkness. "Veritas PR. Senior strategist. Mid-twenties. Blue dress. Loud mouth. One hell of a scream."
A pause.
"…Any particular reason, sir?"
Damien's lips curved, sinful and amused.
"She stole my heel."
Another pause.
"…Your… heel, sir?"
"Figure of speech," he sighed, dragging the towel over his abs, completely unbothered. "Just do what I say. She works in my company, doesn't she?"
"Yes, sir. I'll send her full profile within the hour."
"Good," Damien said, eyes dark with curiosity. "And make sure to pull her disciplinary reports too. I have a feeling chaos like that doesn't hide quietly in HR files."
"Of course, sir."
He hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed, then ran a hand through his damp hair.
"My little rabbit…" he murmured, a smile curling as he stared down at her forgotten heel. "You're going to be fun."
***
[Elle's Condo]
The moment Elle slammed the door to her condo, panting like she'd just outrun the mafia, her heel still in hand and hair looking like it lost a battle with a leaf blower—
POP!!
"CONGRATULATIONS!!!"Confetti. Real-ass, glittery, multicolored confetti exploded into the air like she just won the Hunger Games.
Elle blinked.
Luna stood dead-center in the living room, grinning like the Cheshire Cat on three shots of espresso. In one hand, she held a cardboard tube of party poppers; in the other, a bright pink sign with aggressive glitter font that read:"GO GET THAT D" (the "D" was decorated with a tiara).
"…What the actual hell," Elle mumbled, staring at the raining confetti as it settled into her hair, already sticking to the leftover dampness from her shower sprint.
Luna rushed over and gripped her shoulders like a proud dance mom. "You did it. You finally did it."
Elle frowned. "Did what?"
Luna's eyes sparkled like a woman who'd been waiting all night to deliver this line."Moved. The fuck. ON." she said dramatically, shaking Elle a little with each word. "You spent the night with a hot, sexy, ungodly fine man. This is a milestone. A turning point. A historic event. I baked cupcakes!"
Elle's soul momentarily left her body. "Luna. I was kidnapped by my own hormones. This is not a win. This is a crime scene. I screamed. I ran. I LEFT A SHOE BEHIND LIKE I'M DISCOUNT CINDERELLA."
Luna gasped. "You left a shoe?! Oh my god, Elle—did he chase you down the stairs?! Was there background music?! Did he look heartbroken?!"
"I didn't particularly leave a shoe, but...," Elle deadpanned. "He was shirtless. Holding my heel. Like some Greek god version of a lost-and-found demon."
Luna made a squealing noise like a dying dolphin. "STOP. I'M TOO WEAK FOR THIS. Do you understand what this means?! You're the main character now!"
"I am not the main character!" Elle groaned, dropping onto the couch like a wet rag. "I'm the cautionary tale!"
Luna flopped beside her dramatically, glitter stuck to her cheek. "Tell me everything. Every second. Every moan. Every sinful, shirtless detail. I need it for scientific research."
Elle gave her a deadpan look. "You need a doctor."
Luna didn't miss a beat. "No… I need details, baby."
There was a dangerous sparkle in Luna's eyes. The kind that screamed I will not rest until I get every juicy morsel, and Elle, despite her better judgment, felt herself start to cave. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or the ridiculous confetti. Or maybe she just needed to let it out before she exploded from internal cringe.
Elle looked at Luna, then paused—eyes sparkling like she'd just discovered a juicy secret. "You really wanna know?" she asked, her voice low and dramatic.
Luna nodded furiously, like a headless chicken at a disco.
With a sigh that screamed main character energy, Elle pulled her legs up onto the couch, tucked them under her like a diva settling in for storytime, flicked a rogue piece of glitter off her shoulder, and finally said, "So… what happened was… yesterday, I accidentally walked into the wrong room, and guess who was in there? That stupidly handsome, dangerously sexy man—alone. Drinking wine. Like he was posing for a perfume ad or something."
She paused, dead serious. "And I swear, he looked at me like I was the dessert."
And that's how Elle began narrating the story of her wild, chaotic first night with her best friend Luna—laughing, cringing, and reliving every ridiculous moment.
Completely unaware…
That the man she had a one-night stand with was about to crash back into her life.
Hard.