CHAPTER 2 - THE MORNING AFTER

ELENA'S POV

My hands flew to my mouth, muffling a gasp as I stared at the man sleeping beside me.

“Alexander Grey? The Alexander Grey?” I muffled under my hands.

I took a step back, my eyes scanning the room as if waking up to reality for the first time. The suite was nothing like the standard rooms I cleaned or served on my shifts—marble accents on the nightstands, a sleek leather armchair in the corner, and a massive window overlooking the city skyline that stretched out like a kingdom he probably owned a piece of.

“How did I end up here? With him?” I asked myself, still shocked from the scene in front of me.

I was a bartender, not a business mogul's plaything. I was Elena Sinclair, the girl who clocked in at the Sapphire Hotel five nights a week, poured drinks with a smile that hid her exhaustion, and counted every tip like it was a lifeline to something better. My life was small—rented apartment with creaky floors, student loans I chipped away at slowly, dreams of community college classes I never quite had time for.

Alexander Grey was the opposite: headlines, private jets, boardrooms where decisions moved markets and changed lives. The disconnect hit me like a second blow, leaving my stomach churning.

I stood quietly, eyes flickering to the clock on the wall that read 6:45 AM.

“Just Great!”

The memories of the night before started flooding back—the whiskey, the laughter, the way he touched me... I felt my cheeks burn with a heat that had nothing to do with the rising sun outside. It all rushed in fragments at first, then in full, vivid color.

I had been a virgin, holding on to that through years of cautious dating and lonely nights, telling myself it would be worth waiting for the right moment, the right person. One reckless birthday delivery to Room 314 had shattered every careful plan I’d ever made. My body still ached in places that reminded me exactly how thoroughly I had given in, and the flush on my cheeks deepened as shame and something dangerously close to longing twisted together in my chest.

“I need to get out of here. Now,” I thought to myself.

The thought pounded in my head like a drum, louder than the faint city traffic humming far below. I couldn’t risk him waking up, those eyes opening and fixing on me with the same intensity that had made me forget every boundary last night.

What would I even say? “Hi, I’m the bartender who just slept with you and didn’t know who you were”?

“No. Absolutely not!” I said, shaking my head.

I moved quickly but quietly, my bare feet silent on the thick carpet as I gathered my scattered clothes. My black work blouse lay crumpled near the TV console, one button missing and the fabric wrinkled from impatient hands. My skirt was tangled at the foot of the bed with what looked like his dress pants, the material still carrying the faint scent of his cologne mixed with my perfume.

I dressed in frantic silence, fingers fumbling with zippers and hooks, every small rustle feeling like it could wake the entire floor. My bra was draped over the arm of a chair, and I had to hunt for my panties, finally spotting them half-hidden under the edge of the pillow on his side. I slipped them on last, my eyes drifting back to him against my will.

His face was relaxed in sleep, jawline soft without the sharp tension of the boardroom photos I’d seen in passing on newsstands. His chest rose and fell steadily, broad shoulders shifting slightly with each breath, the sheets riding low enough to show the defined lines of muscle I had explored with my hands only hours ago. He looked almost peaceful, human in a way that made my heart clench unexpectedly. I shook my head, pushing the thoughts away like they burned. This wasn’t some fairy tale. This was a mistake that could destroy the fragile life I had scraped together.

As I slipped out of the room, I looked around nervously, hoping no one saw me. The hallway stretched out long and empty, soft morning light casting gentle shadows along the beige walls lined with generic art prints. The carpet swallowed my footsteps completely, making me feel like a ghost haunting a place I didn’t belong.

I kept my head down, purse clutched tight against my side, heart racing as I passed each closed door. What if a coworker was on an early shift? What if housekeeping rounded the corner right now? The elevator at the end of the hall felt like salvation. I jabbed the call button twice, willing the car to hurry, and when the doors finally slid open with a quiet ding, I stepped inside and exhaled only when they closed behind me, sealing me away from everything that had happened.

It was Saturday, so I didn't have to work. I had the whole day to process this. But process what? That I'd lost my virginity to a stranger? A powerful stranger, at that.

I felt a wave of panic wash over me, cold and suffocating, as the elevator descended. What if he didn't use protection? I tried to recall the night, but it was all a blur of heat and sensation and the haze of too much champagne.

“Had there been a condom?” I asked myself. The details slipped away like smoke, his hands, his mouth, the rhythm of our bodies, but nothing concrete about protection surfaced. My stomach twisted tighter, but that didn’t erase the what-ifs screaming in my head.

Pregnancy? An STI? Or worse, the simple fact that I had crossed a line I could never uncross. I pressed my palms to my temples, trying to steady my breathing as the floors ticked down.

I shook my head, trying to clear the memories, but they clung stubbornly, sending unwanted warmth pooling low in my belly even more. This was bad. This was really bad. I had always been the careful one—the girl who went home alone after every shift, avoided drama, and kept her head down so she could eventually claw her way out of this dead-end job. One night had undone all of that.

The elevator doors opened into the lobby, and I forced myself to walk normally, nodding politely at the front desk clerk who barely looked up. I pushed through the revolving doors and out onto the street, the cool April air hitting my flushed skin like a slap. I hailed a taxi on the corner, waving my arm until one screeched to a stop beside me.

Collapsing into the backseat, I muttered my address to the driver as he asked where I was headed. Home, I thought. I just wanted to go home, to the safety of my tiny apartment with its leaky faucet and familiar creaks, where I could curl up under my own blankets and pretend none of this had happened.

As the city passed by outside—familiar streets blurring into coffee shops opening their doors, pedestrians clutching weekend newspapers, and the distant gleam of skyscrapers, I couldn't shake the feeling that my life was about to change in ways I couldn't control.

The taxi wove through traffic, the radio murmuring low in the background, but my mind was elsewhere, replaying every second of the night in an endless loop. I stared at my reflection in the window, the girl looking back pale and wide-eyed, a faint mark visible just above my collarbone where his mouth had been.

The driver turned a corner onto my street, and I dug in the pocket of my skirt for cash, my fingers brushing against something small and unfamiliar at the bottom.

I pulled it out slowly and it was a sleek black business card, embossed with the Grey Enterprises logo and a single phone number in crisp silver lettering. No name. Just the number. I hadn’t put it there. It must have slipped into my pocket somehow during the night, maybe when clothes were flying or in the tangle of sheets.

My breath caught as the taxi slowed to a stop in front of my building. I paid the driver quickly, stepping out onto the sidewalk with my heart hammering louder than the morning traffic.

I stood there frozen for a second, staring at the worn brick steps leading up to my apartment door, the card burning against my fingers. The feeling that everything was about to change hit me harder than before—because deep down, I knew I wouldn’t be able to throw it away. Not yet.