CHAPTER 3
Ariana’s POV
“No…” The word escaped my lips before my eyes even opened. My Body Felt heavy, sore in ways I
Didn’t want to acknowledge. It was the kind of ache that left no room for denial.
I blinked against the dim light, trying to push away the remnants of a dream that had started nauseating and ended terrifying. In the dream, I’d been in the arms of a stranger, his touch rough, his kiss demanding. We had left the bar together, stumbled into a room, and given in to a heat that made no sense.
The problem was, it hadn’t been a dream.
“No…!” The sound was sharper this time, and my hand flew to my mouth before it got any louder. My eyes darted towards the man beside me.
He was asleep. Peaceful. Completely unaware that my heart was pounding like a war drum.
The thin hotel blanket draped over us did little to hide the truth. My bare skin prickled in the cool air, and when I glanced down beneath the covers, my stomach turned.
On the floor, tangled together like discarded confessions, lay my red cocktail dress, black button-down shirt, and a pair of black trousers.
It looked like a crime scene. Only this time, I was both victim and culprit. Funny right? I know
The events of last night were replayed in fragments: laughter over a glass of wine, his hand brushing mine at the bar, the sharp glint in his eye when he said something I couldn’t quite remember. The elevator ride. The taste of whiskey on his lips.
“Damn it…” My voice was low, but the bitterness in it felt deafening. First, I’d publicly imploded on live television, my boyfriend humiliating me in front of an audience of millions. Now, I’d thrown myself into the bed of a stranger.
The second disaster occurred in less than twenty-four hours.
I slid one leg off the mattress, then the other, moving with the caution of someone defusing a bomb. My hands instinctively covered my chest as I stood.
No showers. No makeup touch-up. No time. I needed to leave.
The digital clock on the nightstand glowed like a taunt.
“Six fifteen,” I whispered. My purse sat beside it, my phone peeking out. I snatched it up and winced when I saw the screen.
Twenty missed calls from Maya.
The blinds were shut tight, keeping out the early morning sun. It was perfect for disappearing.
I moved quickly, pulling on my dress, yanking my scarf from my purse, and sliding my oversized sunglasses into place. My shoes dangled from my fingertips as I crossed the plush carpet toward the door.
At first glance at him.
Who the hell was He?
His voice from last night had been confident, almost commanding. The bartender treated him like royalty. But he didn’t look old enough to have that kind of authority.
Didn’t matter. I’d never see Him again.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
My fingers curled around the doorknob. But before I could turn it on, my phone rang loudly, jarring.
The sound made him stir.
I twisted the knob. The door didn’t move. I pushed harder. Still locked.
“Going somewhere?” His voice was low, deep, laced with an edge I couldn’t place.
I froze.
“You seem to be in a hurry… Ariana.”
The way he said my name made my blood run cold. My head snapped toward him. He was awake now, sitting up, sheets pooling around his waist.
“Who are you?” My voice cracked despite my effort to keep it steady.
“Let’s just say…” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “…I’m one of your biggest haters.”
My gaze darted away when he stood, bare skin in full view.
“God!” I turned my face toward the wall.
“Why are you acting shy now? "Last night you were begging me not to stop.” His laugh was quiet, mocking.
“Just open the door,” I said sharply, my fingers still gripping the knob.
“I will. On my terms.”
“I’ll call security.”
That made him laugh outright. “You’re in my hotel. Go ahead, Ariana. Call them. Tell everyone the once-famous Ariana Cruz got drunk and slept with a man she barely knew the same night her boyfriend dumped her live on air.”
My heart pounded so hard it almost drowned out his words. Almost.
He owned the hotel. That explained the bartender’s nervousness last night.
I forced my chin up. “No one will believe you.”
“Unlike the others who only bragged, I have proof.”
He reached for a sleek remote on the desk and pressed a button.
The flat-screen on the wall lit up.
There I was, on the bed. My lips on his. My hands are clutching at his hair. Every sound, every movement, every humiliating detail captured in crystal-clear resolution felt weak.
“I have you in the palm of my hand, Ariana Cruz,” he said, shutting the TV off. The door’s unlocked now. You can walk out. But the second you do, this video hits every tabloid site in the country.”
I swallowed hard. “What do you want?”
His smirk deepened. “Now that’s a question I like.”
“What do you want?” I asked again, my voice quieter this time.
“What I want,” he said, stepping closer until there was barely any space between us, is revenge. You’re the reason my relationship was destroyed. You ruined the best thing I ever had.”
My brows drew together. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
“You don’t remember the Sienna Hart interview?” His tone sharpened. “Your advice made her leave me.”
The name hit me like a slap.
Sienna Hart.
Ethan Vale.
The pieces slid into place all at once.
“No way…” My voice faltered. “You’re Ethan Vale.”
“And you,” he said, leaning down, so his face was inches from mine, “owe me everything you’re about to give.”