The dress hung by the window, untouched. White silk, hand-stitched lace, a gown designed to turn heads—and now it looked like a joke, mocking her. A week ago,Emily Westwood had happily tried it on with smiles all over her face. Now, she couldn't even look at it without feeling bile rise in her throat.
Her dream life had ended thirty minutes ago and it had gone out quietly.
Emily Westwood stood barefoot in her apartment, her phone buzzed again on the marble counter.
"Where are you? You're late for the final rehearsal!"
– Love,Isabelle💕
Isabelle. Her best friend. Her maid of honor. The same woman whose laughter Emily had just heard—echoing from her own bedroom.
Thirty minutes earlier, she had forgotten her phone at home and returned to get it, only to find her fiancé's jacket on the floor… his shirt… and then their moans. Familiar voices. Too familiar.
Her fiancé. Her best friend. In her bed.
They didn't even hear her enter. She stood frozen in the doorway, watching two people she trusted betray her without shame.
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
She just left.
Now, here she was—wearing the wrong lipstick, trembling hands clutching a bottle of perfume she never sprayed. Her whole life had been color-coordinated, planned to perfection. But nothing in her planner prepared her for this betrayal.
She grabbed a coat, slid her feet into stilettos, fifteen minutes later, Emily stepped out of the building. No driver. No destination. Just herself, dressed in a little black dress and a fury she couldn't name. Her eyes—usually warm amber—were now dull and stormy. Now she felt like a fool.
No words could describe the ache. It wasn't heartbreak. It was betrayal that wrapped around her lungs and squeezed. How long had they been lying to her? How many smiles were fake?
The air was thick with heat and city noise-it felt like daytime, but tonight it felt louder than usual. She walked past familiar buildings, ignoring the buzz of her phone, until she found herself standing in front of Club Elysium, an upscale lounge she had always passed but never dared to enter. Until now.
Inside, the lounge was dimly lit and luxurious.
People whispered and laughed around her, but Amara moved like a ghost, sliding onto a barstool near the end of the counter.
"Scotch," she told the bartender. "Neat."
The woman raised a brow. "Sure you don't want something lighter?"
Emily looked her dead in the eye. "I said neat."
The glass clinked in front of her a moment later. She drank in silence.
One glass. Then another. Her world blurred, the fire in her chest softening.
That was when he appeared.
"You look like someone who wants to forget."
His voice low, smooth, commanding. She turned her head, her vision slightly unfocused.
That was when she noticed him-He was tall. Dressed in black. Clean-cut jawline, a quiet confidence. He didn't look like someone who belonged here—he looked like he owned the place. He didn't smile. He studied her like he already knew what had broken her.
She blinked slowly, unsure why she didn't ask him to leave. Maybe because she didn't want to be alone. Or maybe because the pain had numbed her sense of caution.
"I lost everything today," she whispered.
He tilted his head slightly. "Then you've got nothing to lose."
She took another sip. "Exactly."
"I have never done anything stupid before," she said, placing her glass down. "But tonight, I want to."
He raised an eyebrow. "Define stupid."
"One night. No names. No promises."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. Then he stood.
"Let's go," he said.
They reached a penthouse—the elevator required a fingerprint. That's how rich he was. The kind of man you don't ask what he does for a living. The kind you either marry or run from.
He poured her one last drink as she kicked off her heels.
"Still time to change your mind," he said.
She turned around slowly. Her robe slipped off her shoulder, her eyes meeting his with fire.
"No," she whispered. "I already did that once. Not tonight."
And in the darkness, in a stranger's arms, Emilyforgot.
Forgot the dress. The betrayal. The pain.
She became someone else—if only for a night.
To be continued