6. Sabrina
6
Sabrina
U gh.
My head.
No, wait. Head’s fine. Weirdly fine.
It’s the rest of me that feels… processed.
Like I went ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer and then got run over by a very expensive, very comfortable steamroller.
Sunlight slices through a gap in the curtains, hitting my eyelids. I groan, burying my face deeper into the pillow.
A pillow that smells strangely of black tea, fig leaf, ozone… and sex.
Oh god.
Memory slams back with the subtlety of a Vegas eviction notice.
The pool party.
Leo.
The wedding-that-shouldn’t-have-happened.
The security guards.
This room.
My eyes snap open.
Definitely not my shared room with the girls.
No, this is Leo Maxwell’s palatial Sky Suite.
And I’m definitely naked under the sheets, which are currently tangled around the equally naked, deeply sleeping form of Leo himself beside me.
Oh, Sabrina. What have you done?
Panic, cold and sharp, claws its way up my throat. I shut my eyes and lie perfectly still, my heart hammering against my ribs as if it’s trying to escape the scene of the crime while leaving me here.
Slowly, carefully, I open my eyes and look at him again.
God he’s so beautiful when he sleeps. Annoyingly so. The intensity from last night is gone, smoothed away. His dark blonde hair is mussed against the pillow, ridiculously perfect even in sleep. Long lashes rest against his cheekbones. His mouth, the same mouth that kissed me with bruising intensity hours ago, is slightly parted, relaxed. He looks younger, almost vulnerable. Nothing like the primal, drug-fueled force of nature who…
Okay, don’t think about that.
My stomach churns with a toxic mix of residual pleasure, shame, and blinding panic. He was high. Not just drunk, but GHB high. The ‘gentleman’s version’ as he called it, whatever the hell that means. And I… I wasn’t.
I faked taking it.
I was sober-ish. Tipsy from tequila, maybe, but aware. Consenting? Yes, technically. But ethically? Sleeping with someone who’s significantly chemically altered feels… murky. Predatory, almost. Even if he initiated everything. Even if my body responded like a goddamn fireworks finale.
He wouldn’t have wanted me without the GHB .
The thought lands like a punch to the gut, cold and certain. I’m not a model. Sober, charming Leo, wouldn’t look twice at sensible, curvy Sabrina, the PR consultant who makes killer lasagna. He’d want someone flashier, someone from his own glittering world, someone who actually took the party enhancers.
Last night wasn’t about me . It was about his drug-fueled libido finding the nearest warm body.
Which happened to be mine.
My cheeks burn with humiliation. God, I need to get out of here. Now. Before he wakes up. Before he looks at me with those clear green eyes, confusion dawning as he tries to place the vaguely familiar brunette in his bed.
Before the inevitable awkwardness, and then the polite dismissal.
My father didn’t even give me a polite dismissal.
The thought twists like a knife. No, I can’t face that. Not again.
Carefully, painstakingly slowly, I begin to untangle myself from the sheets and his surprisingly heavy arm draped across my waist. He murmurs something in his sleep, shifting slightly, and I freeze, holding my breath until he settles again. His skin is warm against mine, the contact sending an unwelcome jolt of awareness through me.
Stop it.
Finally free, I slide off the edge of the massive bed onto the plush carpet. My legs feel shaky. I scan the room, spotting my clothes scattered near the door where they landed last night. My jean shorts, my tank top, my bra, my underwear… evidence of a hasty, frantic undressing.
I look back at Leo, still sleeping soundly. His jeans are pooled on the floor near the bed, his knit shirt discarded nearby. An idea, born of pure panic and a desperate need to rewrite reality, sparks in my mind.
Damage control. Crisis management.
If he wakes up naked, me naked beside him, the conclusion is obvious. But if he wakes up… dressed? Mostly dressed? Maybe the memory loss, the GHB fog, will make him doubt what happened. Maybe he’ll think we just passed out.
Maybe I can pretend we just passed out.
It’s insane. It’s probably pointless.
But I’m going to do it anyway.
But first, my own clothes. God, if he woke up while I was dressing him and meanwhile I was fully naked? The mortification alone would kill me.
My hands tremble as I gather my clothes and quickly dress, fumbling with buttons and zippers. Underwear, jean shorts. Bra, tank top.
Okay. Shoes. Where are my shoes?
I spot them near the bedroom entrance where I must have kicked them off. I retreat, slide on my socks, then shoes.
Fully dressed, I return to the bed and snatch up his jeans. They’re heavy, expensive.
Heart pounding, I awkwardly wrestle the denim back onto his legs, trying not to jostle him too much, careful not to disturb the sheet strategically draped over his midsection.
Nope. Not looking.
I definitely don’t need a replay of that particular piece of impressive anatomy right now. Seeing it again might short-circuit my escape plan with flashbacks I absolutely cannot afford. Ignorance is bliss, especially when that bliss involves getting the hell out of Dodge .
Sliding on his jeans is a lot harder than I imagined. He’s solid muscle and dead weight. I manage to get them halfway up his thighs before giving up. Close enough.
I shake my head. Who am I kidding? He’s not even wearing underwear.
Maybe he’ll think he went to the bathroom in the middle of the night and just forgot to put them back on?
Yeah right.
I move on to his shirt next. I pull it roughly back over his head and torso, smoothing it down his chest. It looks… plausible. Like maybe he collapsed into bed half-dressed. Or something.
Well, either way, I’m relieved he didn’t wake up. That saves me some embarassment...
I creep towards the door, casting one last look back at the bed. Leo is still asleep. He looks rumpled, peaceful.
And completely oblivious.
This is for the best, I tell myself, the lie bitter on my tongue. Protect yourself, Sabrina. He’ll never know. No one needs to know.
I’ll tell the girls we just crashed, fully clothed. Plausible deniability.
My hand is on the bedroom doorknob when he stirs again.
“Mmmph… ‘brina?”
I freeze, my blood turning to ice water.
He remembers my name?
Or a part of it, anyway.
I don’t turn around. I can’t.
He shifts, the rustle of expensive sheets loud in the silent room. “Wha… what time ‘sit?”
His voice is thick, slurred with sleep and… co nfusion.
“Early,” I whisper, my voice tight. “I gotta go.”
“Go?” He sounds genuinely bewildered. “Where… where are we? How... did we get here?”
He doesn’t remember.
The confirmation hits me, a sickening mix of relief and profound sadness. He doesn’t remember the suite, doesn’t remember bringing me here, doesn’t remember… anything.
Just like I feared.
Just like I knew.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say quickly, yanking open the heavy bedroom door. “Go back to sleep, Leo.”
“Wait…” he starts, trying to push himself up, but I’m already slipping through the door, pulling it shut behind me with a soft, decisive click.
I lean against the cool wood of the door, my breath coming in ragged gasps. My heart feels like it’s going to beat its way out of my chest. Tears I refused to shed earlier now burn hot behind my eyes.
Run.
I race through the suite, barely seeing the luxury around me, until I burst onto the private landing. One of his guards from last night is still there, seated in a chair next to the door. Charlie, I think?
He raises an eyebrow at me when I emerge.
“You didn’t kill him, did you?” Charlie asks, and I can’t tell if he’s being serious or just deadpanning.
“He’ll live,” I reply.
I practically sprint to the private elevator, jabbing the down button repeatedly. Behind me, Charlie is entering the suite to check on Leo.
The elevator doors finally slide open. Inside, it’s thankfully empty.
As I descend, the glittering lights of Vegas beyond the glass walls blur through my tears .
Idiot. Stupid, stupid idiot.
How could I have let that happen? How could I have been so reckless, so needy, so… available? I purposely didn’t take any drugs so that I’d be in full control of my faculties.
A lot of good that did me.
He didn’t choose me. He wouldn’t choose me. Last night was a transaction fueled by drugs and proximity, nothing more. And now I’m fleeing like a criminal, leaving him to wake up confused and alone, just like my father left me.
Well, it’s not like Leo remembers anything anyway.
The elevator doors open onto the main casino floor. The noise, the lights, the stale cigarette smoke hit me like a physical blow.
It’s still dark outside, but the casino is timeless, and relentlessly bright. I stumble towards the main elevators, desperate to get back to my room, to the relative sanity of my friends, before I completely fall apart.
The secret settles heavily in my gut, cold and hard. I slept with Leo Maxwell.
He was high.
I wasn’t.
He won’t remember.
And I have to pretend it never happened.
I swipe furiously at a tear escaping down my cheek as I wait for one of the main elevators.
God.
What an absolute fucking mess.