PART ONE: The Morning After
"Ugh..."
God, my head.
It feels like someone stuffed a firecracker behind my eyeballs and lit the fuse.
Why did I think I could party like I was still in college?
I groaned, rolling over on stiff motel sheets, reaching out blindly for my phone. Even drunk, I had my rituals. Wallet, keys, phone—all in the same place. Always.
Fingers brushed the nightstand.
Then something soft.
Not pillow soft. Not towel soft.
Skin soft.
Velvety.
Warm.
Breathing.
I cracked one eye open. Blinked.
A bare shoulder lay inches from my face. Smooth. Golden. Draped in tangled sheets, like some erotic painting come to life.
Then I saw the rest of her.
Susan.
Holy shit.
Long dark hair spilled across the pillow. Her lips, parted just slightly. That heart-shaped face. She looked peaceful, almost innocent.
But she wasn't wearing a thing.
Neither was I.
Cue: mental tailspin.
Clothes scattered across the floor—her black lace bra hooked over the TV remote, my dress shirt hanging from the lampshade like a warning flag. My pulse slammed against my ribcage.
What the hell happened last night?
The Night Before
It started as a celebration.
We'd just locked in the biggest acquisition deal our firm had ever landed. Senior partners were actually smiling—rare enough to deserve champagne.
So they handed me the corporate card and said, "Go nuts, Flynn. You earned it."
First round? Fine dining at Canoe, high above downtown Toronto. Pan-seared foie gras, rare steak, vintage wine that cost more than my rent. The works.
Second round? BarChef on Queen West—Toronto's upscale cocktail temple. Velvet couches, dry ice smoke, mixology that felt like black magic. Susan ordered a drink that came in a crystal skull. She thought it was hilarious.
I did too. At the time.
By round three, we were at some underground speakeasy I don't even remember the name of. Password-only, red velvet walls, candlelight, and so much whiskey I forgot how to pronounce my own name.
That's when Susan got really drunk.
She was laughing at her own reflection in a cocktail spoon.
"Boss, I think I'm melting," she slurred.
I should've taken her home then. But her address? She kept giggling, whispering something about secrets and never talk to strangers.
It was 3:30 a.m. Ubers were triple-priced. Cabs were ghosts.
So I did what seemed safe.
Booked the nearest boutique motel, ten minutes from King Street. Paid cash. Made a video of myself saying, "Just making sure she's safe. Dropping her off. Leaving now."
I helped her lie down. Pulled the blanket over her. Turned to go.
Then she grabbed my wrist.
"Don't leave," she whispered.
Her fingers slipped under my shirt, nails tracing along my skin.
"Flynn… don't you want me?"
I froze.
I should've walked.
I meant to walk.
But she stood, pulling me down with her, silk sheets sliding off her body like temptation incarnate. Her lips brushed my neck. My chest. My—
The Room Turned to Fire.
The sheets whispered as she pulled me down with her, silk sliding against skin. Her body curved beneath mine like it had always known how to fit there.
Her lips brushed my neck. My collarbone. Lower.
Every nerve lit up. My hand found her waist, her thigh, and I sank into her like I'd been drowning and didn't realize it until the air hit my lungs again.
She arched under me, breath catching.
"More," she gasped. "Please—"
I kissed her hard, her pulse beating wild against my mouth. She moaned when I ran my hands down her back, fingertips memorizing the shape of her spine, the curve of her hips.
She moved like she wasn't afraid of anything. Like she knew exactly what she was doing—to me, to herself, to the line we were crossing.
But then there were these moments—stillness between gasps—where she looked up at me, eyes wide, open. Vulnerable.
And something inside me cracked.
This wasn't just sex.It was reckless.Beautiful.A mistake I'd regret the rest of my life.
But I didn't stop.
I couldn't.
Back to the Present
I sat up in bed, breath shallow.
What the hell did I do?
She stirred beside me, blinking slowly.
Our eyes met.
And for a moment, we didn't say a word.
Then she sat up, reached for her dress—thrown over a chair—and pulled it on in silence.
I did the same.
"Wanna grab food?" I asked, trying not to sound like I was internally screaming.
24/7 Noodle Bar, Chinatown
It was dead silent as we slurped soup. Neon lights flickered above us. A couple drunks laughed in the corner.
My brain finally started catching up to reality.
She was 24. I was 31.
She was an intern.
This was not just bad. It was career-ending bad.
"Susan," I started. "About last night…"
She looked up, chopsticks paused midair.
"Flynn?"
"…Yeah?"
"I liked it."
I choked.
She smiled softly. "It was my first time."
My spoon slipped into my bowl with a clatter.
And then—her phone buzzed.
She glanced at it, lips tightening. "I have to go. Meeting with my family."
I blinked. "Wait—Susan—"
But she was already walking out.
Leaving me staring into my soup like it held the answers.
PART TWO: The Lancaster Estate, Westchester County
Miles from downtown, hidden behind wrought-iron gates and a winding private drive, stood one of the most exclusive estates in New York State.
The Lancaster Estate.
Four tennis courts, a helipad, and horse stables. Old money at its most obscene.
Inside the main house, beneath chandeliers worth more than most homes, thirteen men sat at a long mahogany table.
All family. All male.
And then, she walked in.
"Susan!" boomed Arthur Lancaster from the head of the table, rising to greet her.
His grey eyes softened as he hugged her. "My sunshine. Every time I see you, I swear you glow brighter."
"You're biased, Grandpa."
"And you're still my favorite," he said without apology, pulling out the chair beside him.
The rest of the family barely earned a glance.
Dinner was a formal affair. Champagne flutes. Filet mignon. Business talk turned, inevitably, to marriage alliances.
"Father," said Charles Lancaster, fifth son and eternal bootlicker. "We've secured an engagement for Henry—with the Eldridge family."
Arthur gave a noncommittal grunt.
"Also, Susan has received a proposal from—"
"No."
The word sliced through the room like a knife.
Arthur's face was stone.
"I'm not selling my granddaughter to the highest bidder. She's not a stock."
Murmurs of agreement rippled down the table.
Susan set down her wine glass. "Grandpa?"
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"There's someone I want to marry."
The room froze.
Arthur blinked.
"Oh?"
She smiled, wicked and sweet.
"He doesn't know yet. But I've decided."