CHAPTER 3 - BLUR MEMORIES

ALEXANDER’S POV

I woke up to an empty room, the silence a stark contrast to the chaos of the night before. The kind of silence that presses in on you after a storm, heavy and expectant, like the universe was holding its breath waiting for me to catch up.

My head throbbed with the dull insistence of a hangover, the kind that comes from too much whiskey chased by even more bad decisions. The bottle of whiskey and soda still sat on the bedside table, half-empty, the ice long melted into a watery grave at the bottom of the glass.

A faint ring of condensation marked where it had stood all night, a small monument to whatever the hell had happened in this suite. I rubbed my temples, trying to shake off the fog, but it clung stubbornly, fragments of sensation flickering at the edges of my mind—soft skin, breathy moans, the way the room had spun just right when I pulled her down beside me.

As I sat up, the sheets pooled around my waist, cool against my bare skin. That’s when I noticed the stray hair on the pillow next to mine—a dark, silky strand that definitely didn’t belong to me. It curled there like a question mark, long and feminine, catching the morning light in a way that made my pulse kick up a notch. I reached out and picked it up between two fingers, twirling it slowly.

Someone had been here, that, I knew for sure. A smile played on my lips despite the pounding in my skull. The night had been a blur of arrival at the Sapphire after a brutal week of back-to-back meetings—jet lag from London, a merger that nearly fell apart twice, and the kind of exhaustion that makes even a five-star hotel feel like a cage. I’d checked in late, ordered rounds of drinks to take the edge off, and then… nothing clear. Just warmth. Heat. The kind of reckless abandon I rarely allowed myself anymore.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, feeling a bit like a zombie risen from the grave—muscles protesting in all the right places, a pleasant soreness that told me the night had been anything but ordinary.

The carpet was soft under my feet as I stumbled toward the bathroom, the marble tiles cold when I finally reached them. I caught my reflection in the mirror: hair tousled, green eyes bloodshot, a day’s worth of stubble shadowing my jaw.

Alexander Grey, billionaire CEO of Grey Enterprises, looking like I'd been run over by my own success. I turned on the shower, letting the hot water pound against my shoulders, steam filling the glass enclosure like a cloud. It helped clear some of the fog, the scalding spray washing away the sticky remnants of sweat and perfume that still clung to my skin. But my memories of the night before were still hazy, dancing just out of reach like shadows in the corner of my vision.

As I got dressed—pulling on a fresh pair of gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt from my suitcase—I tried to piece together the fragments of the night. There was a woman, I knew that much. The feeling of her skin against mine lingered, tantalizing me with its subtlety. Soft, warm, responsive in a way that had pulled me under like a riptide.

I remembered placing a final order. I remembered the TV light catching her face when I sat up and grabbed her wrist. I could still feel the ghost of her nails digging into my back, It was all a delicious blur. The way we’d moved together, tangled in these very sheets, the world narrowing to nothing but heat and rhythm and release after release.

I shook my head with a smirk on my lip as I buttoned my watch onto my wrist, the expensive timepiece feeling heavier than usual. Women threw themselves at me all the time—models, socialites, executives looking for a shortcut to the top, and this wasn't any different.

I went back to the bed, searching for my watch on the side table. That’s when I saw it—a small bloodstain on the bedspread, faint but unmistakable against the white Egyptian cotton.

My curiosity piqued, I pulled back the sheets fully, the fabric whispering as it slid away. There it was, a delicate crimson mark right in the center where our bodies had been joined. My suspicions were confirmed in an instant. The lady I’d been with was a virgin. Or at least, she had been before last night.

A mix of shock and intrigue washed over me, settling heavy in my chest like a stone dropped into still water. Who was she? And why had she given herself to me? I wasn’t the kind of man who went around deflowering innocents in hotel rooms. My life was calculated—boardrooms, balance sheets, the occasional discreet encounter with someone who knew the rules: no strings, no expectations, no morning-after awkwardness.

But this… this was uncharted territory. I sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on my knees, staring at that stain like it held answers. She hadn’t seemed inexperienced in the moment—her hands had known exactly where to go, her body arching into mine with a hunger that matched my own. But the evidence was right there, undeniable. A virgin. In my bed. On a night when I’d been too far gone to notice or care about the details.

I thought for a while, running a hand through my still-damp hair, the strands falling back into place with that effortless mess that cost me nothing but still turned heads. Part of me wanted to brush it off as one of those girls who had taken advantage of the fact I was rich and famous—maybe she’d recognized me from the papers, seen an opportunity for a story or a payout or just the thrill of saying she’d slept with Alexander Grey. It wouldn’t be the first time. The tabloids loved painting me as the playboy billionaire, even when my actual nights were spent reviewing contracts instead of chasing skirts. But still, the thought lingered, stubborn and unwelcome.

A part of me wanted to find her, to track down the mystery woman who had left her mark on my sheets and my skin. The other part, the rational, boardroom part, just wanted to let it be. One-night stands were meant to fade with the hangover. No complications. No loose ends.

“Has to be one of those girls,” I said. Immediately, my head clicked on a very important aspect of all that had happened. “Did I use…”

I searched around for a used condom, my movements methodical now, like I was auditing a deal gone sideways. I checked the trash bin by the bed, the floor, even the bathroom wastebasket—nothing. Not a wrapper, not a trace. I opened the nightstand drawers, the ones stocked with the usual hotel amenities: Bible, notepad, and a box of condoms that still sat there, untouched, seal unbroken.

That was when I realized I went all in, raw. No protection. No barriers. Just skin on skin, heat on heat, the kind of risk I never took. Ever. My empire was built on control—every variable accounted for, every risk mitigated. And yet last night, with her, control had evaporated like the ice in that whiskey glass.

I smiled, hitting my thigh with the flat of my hand, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “She ain’t a kid, she’s gonna take a pill or something,” I said aloud, the words echoing off the walls with more confidence than I felt.

She had to be on something—women her age usually were smart and careful. The kind who worked in a place like this wouldn’t risk everything on one impulsive night with a stranger. Or so I told myself.

But even as I said it, the words felt hollow. I stood up, pacing the length of the suite, the city skyline mocking me through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Grey Enterprises owned half the buildings out there, and here I was, undone by a single night with a ghost.

And that bloodstain… it changed things. It made her more than a fleeting encounter. It made her someone who had trusted me—me—with something precious, even if it was just for a few heated hours.

One reckless, unforgettable night. She’d slipped out before I woke, no note, no number. Smart girl. No drama. No expectations.

I had a flight to catch tomorrow, a merger to finalize, a city to keep conquering. Finding her would be easy enough if I wanted—hotel security footage, a quiet word with the manager—but why complicate perfection? Let it stay a memory, sharp and sweet, the kind a man like me rarely allowed himself.

I poured myself a glass of water from the minibar, downing it in one go to chase away the last of the cottonmouth. My phone sat on the desk, screen dark, no notifications demanding my attention yet. Saturday morning. The world could wait.

But why did the idea of never seeing her again feel like a loose thread in the fabric of my perfectly controlled life? I turned away from the view, grabbing my laptop from the desk. Work would drown it out. It always did.