Sexting with My Bratva CEO

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Hailey

"Hailey! Did you fucking die in the bathroom?" Samantha's bright, signature scream blasted through my phone. Behind her, electronic music pounded like a heartbeat on steroids, mixed with people shouting and laughing.

"It's your birthday. It's also your 'fuck my ex' freedom day. I ordered the best tequila in all of New York. If you don't get your ass out here, I'm sending a security guy in to carry you."

"I'm coming, Sam." I rubbed my throbbing temples.

"Thirty seconds, babe. Tonight we scrub Matthew's asshole existence right out of your brain."

I hung up and stared at myself in the mirror, tugging my mouth into something that almost passed for a smile.

The marble counter bit cold under my palms. I pressed down like it could steady me, wake me up.

In the reflection, my cheeks were flushed. My mascara had smeared a little. The black, V-neck bodycon dress made me look like I'd come here to ruin someone's marriage.

I barely recognized her—me—the Hailey Woods who clocked in on time every day, cooked on weekends, and waited at home for her boyfriend to come back.

Ex-boyfriend. I corrected myself. Matthew was an ex now.

Three days ago, when I saw his shirt open and another woman's lipstick on his mouth, I should've known every "working late" excuse had been bullshit.

I could still feel the two-carat engagement ring smashing into his face, still see that pathetic look when he said, "Babe, let me explain."

My family had taught me coldness early. My parents split, built new lives, and I became the leftover piece nobody wanted. I'd learned to behave. To bend. To fit.

Matthew had felt like a lifeline—light, normal, safe. And look how that turned out.

I'd wasted four years of my twenty-six trying to squeeze "security" out of him, until today the whole pretty lie finally got ripped apart.

I turned on the faucet and splashed water over my face. The cold snapped me back a little.

Samantha was right. I had to forget him.

And she'd done all this for me—booked a suite, packed a table full of people, yanked me out of the apartment where I'd cried for three straight days. I didn't get to hide in a bathroom and play dead.

I fixed my makeup fast. Then I pushed the door open.

The hallway stretched forever. The carpet was so thick it swallowed every step. Wall sconces smeared soft light across the walls, turning everything dim and a little dirty.

I kept my head down and counted my way back—left, left again, second corner—

I slammed into a wall.

No. Not a wall. A person.

"Shit—" I stumbled back, and strong hands caught my arms before I went down.

"Watch it."

His voice came low and rough, with a faint accent I couldn't place. I looked up and hit a pair of ice-blue eyes.

The guy was freakishly tall. He wore a custom black three-piece suit cut so perfectly it looked like it had been sculpted onto him—broad shoulders, hard lines, pure intimidation.

The lights caught his short, blond hair, but nothing softened his face. Everything about him looked carved. Cold. Sharp.

But what stole my breath was the way he looked at me—like a predator deciding if I was worth the effort.

"I'm sorry," I rushed out, trying to pull free. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

He didn't let go right away. His hands stayed on my arms a beat too long. I felt his heat, and the clean bite of cologne—cedar, leather, and something darker underneath it. Something that made my stomach tighten.

"Did you hurt yourself?" he asked, one corner of his mouth lifting like he was amused.

"No. I'm fine." I tried to step back again, and this time he released me.

I should've said sorry and walked away. That was what normal people did. But my legs stayed planted. My mind went blank.

He tilted his head and took his time looking me over, eyes traveling like he didn't give a damn if I noticed.

And then I remembered what I was wearing—Samantha's insisted-upon black dress. The hem was so short I didn't even want to bend over. The neckline dipped so low it practically threatened my bra.

"Enjoy your night," he said at last, his voice laced with something I couldn't quite read.

Then he walked past me, leaving nothing behind but my scrambled heartbeat and the lingering scent of him.

I stood there and watched him disappear down the hall, only realizing my palms were drenched.

What the hell was that?

"Hailey!" Samantha's voice yanked me back. She leaned out of the suite, red curls glittering under the lights. "Get in here! We're playing truth or dare!"

I took a breath, shoved the hallway moment into a box in the back of my head, and hurried inside.

The room was packed—mostly Samantha's friends, plus a few coworkers we both knew. The air reeked of booze and perfume. The music thumped hard enough to rattle my teeth.

"There she is!" Samantha dragged me to the couch and shoved a cocktail into my hand. "Birthday girl drinks!"

I didn't argue. I took it and knocked it back like I meant it. The burn slid down my throat and lit my stomach, but it didn't touch the pulse that blond man had kicked awake in me.

"That's what I'm talking about. And remember—tonight's theme is happiness." Samantha pulled me into the center of the couch. People crowded in, shouting, grinning. Bottles covered the table in a messy battlefield of glass, and the vibe hit its peak on pure alcohol and bad ideas.

"Alright, assholes! Truth or dare time!" Samantha spun an empty bottle on the table like she was summoning chaos.

A few rounds in, the world went soft at the edges.

The bottle spun again and again. Empty cups lined the coffee table like trophies.

Someone had to make dolphin noises. Someone else got forced to text their ex "I miss you" and delete it instantly.

The room laughed itself breathless. Warmth spread through my veins, turning everything fuzzy, unreal.

Under the neon, the bottle's mouth flashed as it spun, catching gold.

And then I remembered him—the man in the hallway. Those cold blue eyes. That cedar-and-leather scent.

Fuck.

My throat went dry. Heat curled low in my belly for no damn reason. I drained another cocktail, the cold sliding down, but it didn't put out the fire.

A cheer snapped me out of it.

"Ooh! Birthday girl got picked!"

Samantha shot me a wicked grin. "Hailey. Truth or dare?"

The alcohol had already grabbed my brain by the throat. It fed me this reckless, burn-it-down courage. If obedient, good Hailey had only earned betrayal, then tonight I was going to smash her to pieces.

"Dare," I heard myself say. I refilled my cup and swallowed it like a promise.

"Spicy. I love it." Samantha snapped her fingers. "Go to room 2004, find the 'birthday surprise' I booked for you, and get a deep French kiss."

I nearly spit my drink.

"What?"

"You heard me." Samantha lifted a brow. "I hired you an escort. The high-end kind. He'll make you forget that asshole Matthew."

"Samantha, you're insane!"

"Didn't you pick dare?" She blinked at me, all innocent. "Pay up!"

People started counting down. "Three! Two—"

"Fine!" I stood, the booze inflating my courage into something dangerous. "I'll do it!"

To applause and whistles, I grabbed my clutch and bolted out of the suite.

The hallway hit me like a vacuum—too quiet, too still. I leaned against the wall, trying to stop the floor from tilting.

This was insane. Completely fucking insane.

But something in me—something that had been caged way too long—started screaming for it.

I was done being good Hailey Woods. The Hailey who gave up a New York job opportunity for Matthew. The Hailey who cooked on weekends and waited, only to find out he'd been screwing someone else.

Screw it.

I staggered to the elevator and hit the top-floor button.

It was just a kiss. What could happen?

The elevator climbed.

In the mirrored wall stood a woman I didn't know.

Black straps, tight fabric pulling me into curves I'd never seen on myself.

A hemline that flirted with disaster. Heels that made my legs look borrowed.

I gripped the handrail as the rise of the elevator and the spin of the alcohol lifted my stomach.

The numbers jumped. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

Top floor.

The doors opened.

This hallway was quieter. Richer. Even the air felt filtered. I walked forward in heels that didn't feel like mine, counting doors, holding on to one thought: get the kiss, go back, win the round, and let this whole trash night end with something stupid but satisfying.

2000.

2001.

My vision doubled, numbers stacking and sliding apart.

2002.

I stopped.

Yeah. This was it.

A thin line of light leaked under the door.

I inhaled, swallowed what was left of my shame and the last shred of common sense, and lifted my hand.

Knocked.

Once.

Twice.

The silence made my heartbeat thunder in my ears.

The door opened.

It was him.

The man from the hallway.

Blond hair. Ice-blue eyes. Cedar and leather hit me full in the face. He'd ditched his suit jacket. His white dress shirt sleeves were rolled to his forearms, exposing a wrist wrapped in dark ink—tattoos with sharp, deliberate lines. They didn't look decorative. They looked like a warning.

My stomach dropped.

Then something else flared—hot and tight, igniting lower, meaner.

"Uh." My brain crashed.

No. There was no way.

But—this was Samantha. This woman could turn a birthday brunch into a full-on murder mystery with hired actors, code-word menus, and a waiter fake-poisoning himself.

Hiring a dangerous-looking, expensive guy to play an escort and stage a "chance" hallway run-in?

That was absolutely, one hundred percent her brand of psychotic.

Too committed. Like immersive theater.

I convinced myself.

Or the booze and that scorched-earth part of me did it for me.

"Hi." I cleared my throat, forcing my voice not to shake. "I'm Hailey. Hailey Woods. I—" I gestured at my ridiculous outfit. "My friend Samantha. She told you, right? It's a game. I have a dare."

He didn't speak.

He just watched me, one brow shifting the slightest bit.

"So, um..." My face heated until I swore it could fry an egg. My tongue tangled up. "I need... a, uh, a kiss. French. And then I can go. Don't worry, I won't—this is just the dare, I—"

He laughed.

Low. Quiet. The kind that slipped out of his chest like it surprised even him—then he pulled it back fast.

But I heard it.

Every nerve in my body snapped to attention, like he'd brushed his mouth against my neck instead of laughing at the air.

That sound poured gasoline on fire.

I thought he was laughing at me—at my nervous stutter, my pathetic outfit, the way I stood there drunk and begging for a kiss like an idiot. Everything I'd held in all night cracked open right there.

To hell with the dare. To hell with shame. To hell with all of them.

I rose on my toes, grabbed his collar, and kissed him hard.