"Shit!!! FUCK YOU ALL."
It wasn't exactly poetry. But as far as breakdowns went, Amara Hayes figured hers was at least honest.
She stormed out of the glass building that had, until two hours ago, been her workplace—and her last shred of stability. Jobless. Humiliated. Dumped via text forty-eight hours prior by her emotionally beige boyfriend. And rejected by the one agency she actually wanted to work for.
All in one glorious, kick-you-in-the-crotch kind of week.
She didn't cry. Not yet. Instead, she wandered until the city swallowed her whole and spat her out in front of a bar with a name as melodramatic as her week: The Velvet Toothache.
Fitting.
She was three espresso martinis deep, licking salt off the rim of her glass like it had personally wronged her, when her phone buzzed again.
"Hey, still coming to Jason's birthday?"
Jason—her ex. Who dumped her via text like she was a gym subscription he forgot to cancel.
She stared at the screen. Then typed:
Hope you step on LEGO barefoot every day for the rest of your life.
Paused. Deleted it.
Then sent it anyway.
The bartender, a tired man with the dead eyes of someone who'd seen too much, leaned in. "Another?"
Amara nodded. "Can you make it taste like I have my life together?"
He smirked. "So… gin?"
She didn't notice the man right away.
Not until a glass of neat bourbon appeared beside hers. And then a voice—low, cool, the kind that didn't need to be loud to demand your attention.
"Rough night?"
She turned her head and—
Oh. No.
Tall. Dark. Handsome like it was a threat. The kind of man you'd find in the corner of a high-stakes poker game or a scandalous dream.
Suit tailored within an inch of its life. Hair effortlessly tousled. Eyes that flickered somewhere between ice and fire.
She blinked. "Wow. You look like money."
He raised a brow. "And you look like you just threatened to fight your ex on Instagram."
"…I did. And I stand by it."
He gave her a smile—quick, crooked, like it didn't get much practice. It made her stomach do something stupid.
They sat in silence for a moment, drinking. The city buzzed beyond the bar windows, but in their little bubble, everything else dulled to background noise.
"You're not going to give me a lecture about drinking alone?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Everyone's got their poison."
She snorted. "What's yours?"
A pause. His eyes held hers.
"Control."
She looked away before her heart made the mistake of taking that personally.
They talked.
About nothing. About everything.
About bad dates and worse bosses. About wanting to scream into the void and pretending you're okay when you're falling apart inside. About how life never hits softly—only all at once.
He never gave her his name.
She didn't ask.
It felt safer that way. Like this wasn't real. Like they could pretend, just for tonight, that the world didn't exist outside this booth.
And then she said it.
Softly. Recklessly.
"What if we didn't have to explain anything?"
He looked at her. Really looked. Like she was something fragile he hadn't expected to find in the wreckage.
Something shifted.
They left the bar together.
In the cab, her heart pounded. She didn't speak, didn't look at him, didn't have to. His presence pressed against her like heat.
They got to the hotel. He paid. No words.
The elevator ride was silent.
But when the door shut behind them—
Everything broke.
He kissed her like he'd been starving.
Like control had finally slipped, and he didn't care.
Her dress fell to the floor, then her bra, then her panties.
His touch was slow, but deliberate—like he was memorizing her skin.
She gasped when he ran a hand down her thigh, slipping between her legs.
She was already wet. Already waiting.
His fingers found her, teasing her open, coaxing soft moans from her lips.
Then his mouth replaced his hand.
He kissed her breast, then the other—his lips hot against her skin, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make her arch into him.
Her hands fumbled at his shirt, tugging buttons open.
God, he felt like heat and tension and danger.
He didn't speak. Just looked at her like she was the only thing that had ever made him forget himself.
And when he finally entered her—slow, thick, unhurried—
She didn't hold back the noise that tore from her throat.
He moved like he was trying to make her forget everything else.
Like if he went slow enough, deep enough, it could all disappear.
They didn't say each other's names.
But everything else was screamed through touch.
Later, they lay tangled in the sheets.
The silence was different now. Heavier. Realer.
She should've asked him something.
He should've said something.
But neither of them did.
Because maybe this was all it was ever supposed to be.
She woke up alone.
No note. No number. No name.
Just the faint scent of expensive cologne lingering in the sheets.
She sat up slowly. Her body ached in a way that reminded her she was still alive. Her heart… ached differently.
She dressed in the same black dress. No makeup. No shame. Just tired eyes and the quiet defiance of a woman who'd made a choice.
And for once in her life, she didn't regret it.
Not even a little.
Until she stepped into the hallway.
And remembered she had a job interview that afternoon.
Shit.
[END OF CHAPTER 1]