The Morning After

The first thing she noticed was the pain.

Not just a dull ache, but a full-body throb like she'd been thrown from a speeding car and left to rot. Her back. Her thighs. Her neck. Even her fingers pulsed with discomfort. And the bed beneath her-God, it was soft but rough at the same time, like expensive rock wrapped in velvet.

Wasn't a bed supposed to make you feel safe?

Ayra stirred, not fully awake, her head pounding as if she'd carried the weight of the world on it overnight. She reached down to touch her bare skin and felt it-bruises. Tender, raw spots blooming across her body like a cruel reminder of something she couldn't quite recall.

Her eyes fluttered open halfway.

This... wasn't her room.

The walls were taller. The curtains thicker. The air smelled like expensive cologne, leather, and something sterile-money, maybe. She tried to sit up, but the pounding in her head made her freeze, breathing slow through her nose.

Where am I?

She glanced to her right, her blurred vision adjusting just enough to see the sheet rising and falling beside her.

There was a man in the bed.

Her breath caught.

A small, muffled scream escaped into her palm, too scared to even make noise. She moved carefully, lifting the white sheet only slightly-just enough to confirm her fear.

She was naked.

Her heart raced. Panic bloomed in her chest.

What the hell happened?

Fighting the tremble in her legs, Ayra slipped out of the bed as quietly as she could, gathering the black dress she recognized from last night. Her fingers worked quickly-hooking the zipper, slipping on heels that felt foreign on sore feet. She barely looked at the man, though curiosity tugged at her.

He was beautiful.

Not the kind of pretty you see in boys who flex for phone cameras-but dangerously handsome, sharp-jawed and still as stone, like someone sculpted him with intention. A photo frame on the nightstand showed him standing in front of a white luxury jet, suited, masked, and untouchable.

She scowled.

Figures.

As she stepped toward the door, something caught her eye-a full-length mirror beside the closet.

She froze.

Her reflection stared back at her like a ghost.

Her lip was split. Her eyes were puffy. There were red marks around her neck and shoulders, some shaped like fingers, others like teeth. And right there, just beneath her collarbone-

A hickey.

Hot shame flooded her veins. Her jaw clenched as tears threatened to rise, but she blinked them away. She didn't have time to cry. Not now. Not here.

Not after... whatever the hell this was.

She ran her fingers through her tangled hair, lifted her chin, and walked out the door without a sound.

---

The hallway outside was just as lavish-marble floors that whispered under her heels, dim golden sconces casting soft shadows on oil paintings that probably cost more than her life. Ayra kept her eyes ahead, her steps fast but controlled. She didn't know if there were cameras, guards, or witnesses.

She just knew she had to get out.

As she pushed open the grand doors, the bright sunlight hit her, but it wasn't the warm welcome she'd expected. The sight that met her eyes froze her in place. Outside, the driveway was crowded with cameras, press, and reporters. They were all waiting-waiting for someone. She didn't know who, but the flashes of light and shouts from the crowd sent a chill down her spine.

For a moment, she stood there, hidden behind the large doors, unsure of what to do. She hadn't planned for this. The panic started to rise, but she quickly shoved it down. No. She couldn't be seen here. She couldn't be connected to this place.

Ayra stepped back, her heart pounding as she looked around. And then, she saw it-lying across one of the chairs near the entryway: a black shawl, a scarf, something soft and dark that could cover her face.

She didn't hesitate. She grabbed it and draped it over her head, pulling the fabric tightly to shield her features. It wasn't much, but it was enough to hide the marks on her skin, the evidence of what had happened. She took a deep breath and stepped back out into the world.

She kept her head low, eyes darting around for any sign of an easy escape. Her heart thundered in her chest as she walked briskly along the edge of the mansion, praying the crowd hadn't noticed her slip by.

And there it was-an open gate at the back of the property, barely visible from the front. She hurried toward it, her pace quickening. No one was paying attention to the back of the mansion, too consumed with the chaos up front.

The gate creaked open, and Ayra slipped through without a second glance, stepping onto the quiet street beyond. She didn't stop to look back. She just kept walking, her heart still racing, but her mind slowly starting to clear.

She was free.

For now.

The streets outside were a stark contrast to the manicured perfection of the mansion grounds. The city seemed ordinary, even mundane, compared to the opulence she'd just escaped. Ayra kept her head down, the shawl still pulled tightly around her face, making sure no one recognized her. Every step felt like a small victory, but the heavy weight of what had just happened pressed down on her chest.

She had no idea how she'd ended up in that mansion, in that bed, with just anyone. Her mind flashed to the blurry fragments of the night before-drinks, loud music, someone's laughter-then nothing. She hadn't signed up for whatever this was, but somehow, it was now part of her story.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and Ayra flinched. She pulled it out, half-expecting it to be him. But it wasn't. Instead, it was a text from one of the few people she still trusted: Jenna.

"Where are you? I'm getting worried."

Ayra hesitated for a moment before typing back.

"Long story. I'm fine. I'll explain later."

She knew Jenna would worry, but there was no time to explain everything now. Ayra had to think. She couldn't afford to get caught up in this mess. She had to stay out of his world. She had to keep moving forward.

Her fingers tightened around the phone, and she stuffed it back into her bag. Her next step was clear-she needed a place to hide, somewhere safe, at least for the night. The more distance she could put between herself and her house, the better.

Ayra wandered down the street, her thoughts a jumble. She couldn't help but think about him-the man whose bed she'd woken up in. Adrian. She didn't even know if that was his real name. His presence was so... commanding, so overwhelming. And for reasons she couldn't quite grasp, she had the nagging feeling that she hadn't seen the last of him.

She shook her head, trying to banish the thought. She couldn't think about him. She couldn't afford to.

---

She walked quickly, keeping her head down, trying to avoid the eyes of anyone who might be watching her. It was the first time in a long while that she felt so empty, not just in her stomach but in her heart. The hickeys and bruises on her neck were a constant reminder of the night before-a night she wished she could forget, but knew she never would. Her fingers grazed her skin as she quickened her pace, the pain both physical and emotional, eating away at her.

She usually stopped by her favorite shop, that little food stand on the corner, to grab something to eat before heading home. But today... today she couldn't bring herself to. Not with the anger still bubbling inside her, not with the way she felt so lost. The hunger gnawed at her, but it was a different kind of hunger-one that wasn't satisfied by food.

Her thoughts kept drifting back to what had happened, to the betrayal, the quiet tears that no one had seen. It was always the same cycle: the sweetness, the passion, the lies. But for the first time, she didn't have the energy to fight through it. She just needed to get home, to lock herself in her room and pretend that everything was okay.

As she reached her doorstep, she hesitated for a moment. Maybe she'd feel better after some rest, she thought, but she knew deep down that it wouldn't be that simple.