The pounding in your skull was the first thing you felt when you woke. The second was the foreign softness of the mattress, too large, too indulgent, too… not yours. Blinking against the cruel slice of morning light, you turned your head.

There he was. Nick Astor. CEO. Untouchable. Except now, somehow, not. His back was turned, bare against the sheets, steady in sleep as if nothing about last night mattered.

Your stomach twisted. The laughter, the music, the cheap cocktails from the club—they all seemed so far away now, warped into something sour. You pressed your fingers to your temples, trying to piece together the blur of dancing and leaning too close, of a hand at your waist that shouldn’t have lingered, of words slurred and lost to the beat.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with him. Not like this.

The bed felt suffocating, no matter how luxurious, and his presence was worse—a wall of quiet indifference, a reminder of power imbalances you couldn’t laugh off with your coworkers. You were just another reckless decision to him, maybe already forgotten in sleep.

To you, it felt like the start of a mistake you’d have to carry alone.