Chapter 3
Willow
I had slept with a stranger.
The hangover hit before the alarm ever got a chance.
It felt like someone had planted a needle in my temple and kept driving it in, one jab at a time. I stared at the ceiling for three seconds—
—and then last night flooded back like a dam breaking.
Tom Carson's greasy hands in the office. Jessica's loaded little comments in the cafeteria. The bar's shrill laughter. The door I had pushed open.
I shot upright. The sheet slid to my waist, and every muscle screamed—an ache that spread in tight, ugly waves.
The space beside me was empty.
The mattress still held a bit of warmth. The sheets were twisted to hell.
On the nightstand, there was a glass of lukewarm water. A note sat under it, held down like it mattered. The handwriting looked sharp, all hard angles.
"Call me when you're up. I went to get breakfast. —Artyom."
I stared at the name.
Artyom.
It rolled around on my tongue—strange and weirdly familiar. I pinched the note between my fingers. My fingertips burned.
This wasn't a dream.
I had actually slept with a stranger. And not just any stranger—a man who looked like he'd walked out of a movie.
He hadn't laughed at me. He'd... God. He'd given me something I wasn't going to forget.
Willow. Calm down. You slept with a guy. You paid for a room. You were allowed to enjoy it.
I took a few deep breaths.
My eyes dropped back to the note.
He had gone to get breakfast. That meant he was coming back.
No. No, no, no.
I couldn't handle facing him sober.
Last night had been insane enough—I had walked into the wrong room, assumed a total stranger was some kind of hired pretty boy, and thrown myself at him.
Jesus.
I covered my face. My palms pressed against warm, just-woke-up skin.
If he walked in right now, what the hell was I supposed to say? Thanks for the service? Want to split the room?
My cheeks got hotter the longer I thought about it.
I yanked the blanket off and got out of bed. The second my feet hit the floor, the soreness in my waist and lower belly flared, and all those heated, filthy sensations rushed back.
Intimate. Rough. Too good.
I shook my head hard, forcing my brain to shut up.
My clothes were scattered everywhere. I shoved myself into them with clumsy hands.
Then I grabbed my bag and dug through it. Two hundred-dollar bills. One wrinkled fifty.
I slid the two hundreds under the note. Hesitated—then slapped the fifty on top like I was tearing off a piece of myself.
That should be enough, right?
He had been ridiculously good-looking. And he'd known exactly what he was doing. People like that didn't come cheap.
I cracked the door open and slipped into the hall. The faint smell of disinfectant hung in the air. No one passed by.
When the elevator opened, I darted inside, hit the button for the lobby, and leaned back against the cold metal wall, eyes closed for a beat.
When the doors shut, I finally let out a long breath.
Willow, you were twenty-six. You couldn't manage a relationship. Sleeping with a man wasn't the end of the world.
I faced the mirror and tried to fix my hair. It was a wreck—deep copper-red curls like someone had been grabbing them all night.
This was crazy.
I forced my mouth into something like a smile, like nothing had happened. My heart still hammered anyway, like a trapped rabbit slamming itself against my ribs.
?????
It was the first time I had ever been late.
The second I stepped off the elevator, the looks hit me.
Coworkers who usually pretended I didn't exist were huddled together now, heads pressed close, wearing those smug little smiles that said they knew something.
That needle-prick feeling came back, worse than usual.
I kept my head down and walked faster.
Someone whistled behind me.
"Well, damn, Willow. Sounds like you had yourself a good time last night."
I turned. Mark.
Mark was always nasty to me. He loved throwing around jokes that made women want to shower.
He leaned against the break room doorframe, one leg stuck out to half-block the walkway. The spite in his eyes practically dripped.
"So what was it like, huh? Getting popped?" His voice rose, like he was telling a punchline everyone would love. "Didn't think a twenty-six-year-old dried-up virgin like you got that freaky. Heard the guy was a homeless bum. Guess you weren't picky."
A homeless bum?
No. He wasn't.
I tried to speak—my lips parted, then snapped shut.
The words lodged in my throat.
What went cold in me wasn't even the insult. It was the question.
How did he know? Who told him?
I dropped my head lower. My nails bit into my palm.
I had always thought if I didn't fight back, if I stayed quiet, they'd eventually get bored.
Mark stepped right into my path and flicked his eyes at a couple coworkers. "Don't act all high and mighty. The whole floor knew you went out last night to pay for dick. You thirsty little chubby girl."
His gaze slid down my neckline. His hand came up—reaching for my chest.
"Let me check the merchandise."
I jerked back.
A few people snickered under their breath.
Something clicked in my head. I slapped a hand over my neck—
Because there was something there. A mark. Where Artyom had bitten me.
"I need to get to work."
My voice came out small. Like I'd said it to myself.
I didn't know exactly who was talking behind my back, but I knew it wouldn't stop. Rumors didn't die. They spread like mold—in the break room, the bathrooms, corners of lunch.
And I didn't have the strength to swat down every single one.
All of a sudden, I wanted to cry.
My eyes burned. I blinked hard and swallowed it down.
I hadn't done anything wrong. Even if it was a one-night thing, it was my business. Nobody needed to know. But they looked at me like I was trash, like I was some shameless slut.
I wanted to scream at them. Tell them the man I'd been with wasn't homeless. Tell them he was gorgeous. Tell them he had even gone to get breakfast for me.
I wanted them to shut the fuck up.
But I didn't.
Because they would only laugh harder.
I sat down at my desk. Email pings started chiming. I hadn't even clicked anything when someone rapped their knuckles on my tabletop.
I looked up.
Tom stood there. His face was tight with anger. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes stuck to me like a sticky web, suffocating.
He tapped my desk again. "Ms. Pierce. Come to my office."
When I stood, my knees went soft.
I followed him with my head down, staring at the backs of his dress shoes.
Inside his office, I heard a low chuckle—like rotten food slowly fermenting.
It made me want to gag.
"Close the door."
His voice came from up front. No room to argue.
I reached back and shut it. The second the lock clicked into place, the hair on my neck rose.
Pure, animal fear.
Tom didn't circle behind his desk like he usually did. He stayed where he was, eyes sliding over the kiss marks at my collar like a greasy rag.
"Ms. Pierce." He took a couple of steps closer, shoes whispering on the carpet. "Didn't I remind you to watch yourself at work?"
I bit down on my lower lip hard. "Mr. Carson, I don't know what you mean."
"You don't know?" He gave a short, nasty laugh and touched the red mark on my neck. "The whole company knows you fucked some random guy at a bar last night. And you dared to come in here showing it off. What—was that for me? You trying to tease me?"
That familiar nausea surged again, sour and metallic.
I snapped my head away from his hand. "Show some respect. My personal life has nothing to do with my job."
"Personal life?" He grabbed my wrist. His other hand dove straight for my shirt collar. "I wanna see how many marks your little street dog left on you. You act so damn pure in front of me, then you go out and spread your legs—"
"Let go of me!"
Panic hit like ice water dumped over my head. It ran down my spine to my feet. My mind went blank. I didn't think—I just shoved him with everything I had.
He stumbled back. His elbow cracked the edge of his desk.
And then the office door swung open.
Jessica stood in the doorway, a folder in her hand, her surprise perfectly timed.
Tom straightened immediately. He smoothed his slightly rumpled collar, and that polite, professional mask slid right back onto his face.
"Ms. Pierce." He looked almost tired, almost patient. "I know you've been under pressure. I know you're anxious about the project, but you can't do this."
He paused, eyes flicking to the coworkers gathering at the door, voice full of fake disappointment. "There are rules in the workplace. You won't get far using... tactics like this. I'm very disappointed in you."
A few muffled gasps rose from the hallway, then the buzzing started—whispers like a swarm rolling closer.
I stood there, and my blood turned to ice.
He was smearing me. He was trying to destroy me.
My mouth opened. I tried to speak.
Jessica beat me to it. "Willow, you're disgusting. Last night you lured some homeless guy at the bar, and now you tried the same crap here? The director has a wife!"
More coworkers piled in. Some stared at their phones while their ears worked overtime. Others stood a few steps away with coffee, eyes bright like they were watching a damn show.
"I didn't..."
My voice shook so hard I couldn't force it louder.
I knew it. Nobody was going to believe me.
While everyone's eyes pinned me like needles, heels clicked down the hallway—sharp and steady—until they stopped at the office door.
Everyone turned.
A woman stood there in a perfectly tailored black suit. Blonde hair pinned back tight, not a strand out of place.
The CEO's special assistant. Maya Foster.
She took in the mess, then let her gaze land on me.
"Marketing needs to get ready. The CEO called an emergency meeting."
Her voice stayed firm, but her eyes stayed on me. "Especially you, Ms. Pierce. The CEO specifically requested you."
The entire doorway went dead silent.
Tom's expression locked up.
He managed, stunned, "Ms. Foster, are you sure? She's just a junior."
Maya didn't even look at him. She gave me a short nod. "Ms. Pierce. Come with me."