Shirley had always believed disasters announced themselves.
A phone call in the middle of the night.
A knock on the door.
A scream.
Not silence.
Not silk sheets.
Not the unfamiliar scent of expensive cologne clinging to her skin.
Her eyelids fluttered open, the morning sunlight spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city's glittering skyline. For a brief, blissful second, she admired the breathtaking view.
Then reality struck.
This wasn't her apartment.
Her heartbeat stumbled.
The bed beneath her was enormous—far too luxurious to belong to anyone she knew. Cream-colored Egyptian cotton sheets were tangled around her legs, and scattered across the polished hardwood floor were pieces of clothing she recognized all too well.
Her dress.
One heel near the sofa.
The other beneath the bed.
Her handbag was overturned, its contents spilled across the carpet.
"…No."
Her voice came out as barely a whisper.
Slowly, almost mechanically, she turned her head.
A man lay beside her.
Well… not exactly beside her anymore.
He was already sitting on the edge of the bed, fastening the cufflinks of an immaculate charcoal suit as though waking up beside a stranger happened every morning.
Broad shoulders.
Perfect posture.
Dark hair still damp from the shower.
Not once did he look at her.
Shirley's breath caught in her throat.
Memories flashed like broken pieces of glass.
A charity gala.
Too much champagne.
An argument with someone she could no longer remember.
A handsome stranger.
A hotel elevator.
A kiss.
Then…
Nothing.
"Oh my God…"
She yanked the sheets to her chest.
"What happened?"
The man finally glanced over his shoulder.
His expression remained utterly unreadable.
"You don't remember?"
His voice was deep, calm… almost bored.
Shirley swallowed hard.
"No."
He shrugged.
"Then remembering won't change anything."
She stared at him.
Was that it?
No apology?
No concern?
No awkwardness?
Nothing?
"You… you're not even going to explain?"
He adjusted the sleeve of his tailored jacket.
"There isn't much to explain."
Her jaw fell open.
"We spent the night together."
Silence.
"You can leave whenever you're ready."
He picked up a luxury watch from the bedside table and fastened it around his wrist without sparing her another glance.
That was it.
As though she were no different from yesterday's meeting schedule.
"What kind of person are you?"
He finally looked directly into her eyes.
Cold.
Sharp.
Indifferent.
"The kind that doesn't repeat himself."
The words sliced through the room.
Before Shirley could find another sentence, someone knocked hurriedly on the suite door.
Three quick knocks.
A pause.
Then another two.
The man sighed.
"Come in."
The door opened immediately.
Three people rushed inside.
A middle-aged man in an expensive navy suit.
A young woman carrying two phones.
Another man with a tablet already open.
"Mr. Duane," the older man said anxiously. "We've got a problem."
Shirley frowned.
Duane?
The Duane?
The older man continued before his boss could answer.
"The paparazzi found the hotel."
The room fell silent.
"There are over forty reporters outside the main entrance."
The assistant glanced nervously toward Shirley.
"They know you didn't leave alone."
Shirley's stomach dropped.
"…What?"
The woman holding the phones swallowed.
"They're broadcasting live."
She turned the screen around.
There it was.
Every entertainment channel.
Every celebrity blog.
Every gossip page.
Luxury CEO Darell Duane Spotted With Mystery Woman.
Who Is She?
Has The City's Most Eligible Billionaire Finally Fallen?
Outside the hotel entrance, cameras flashed nonstop.
Microphones.
News vans.
Security guards struggling to hold the crowd back.
"They've blocked every exit," another assistant reported.
"Our legal team is already issuing warnings."
"We've contacted the hotel manager."
"Social media is exploding."
"They're calling her your newest scandal."
Shirley's face drained of all color.
"No…"
She wasn't famous.
She worked a normal job.
She paid rent.
She worried about grocery prices.
She couldn't survive becoming tomorrow's headline.
She looked toward the man responsible.
Darell Duane.
Now she recognized him.
The billionaire CEO.
The youngest head of the Duane Group.
Owner of luxury hotels, technology firms, real estate, and half the city's skyline—if the magazines were to be believed.
The man whose face constantly appeared on business covers.
The man whose personal life generated more headlines than his billion-dollar deals.
He looked at the live broadcast for exactly three seconds.
Then…
"So?"
The room froze.
His assistants exchanged horrified glances.
"Sir," the older man said carefully, "your shareholders are already questioning yesterday's nightclub photographs. If they get pictures of this woman leaving your suite, it'll become another scandal."
Another.
Not the first.
Not even unusual.
Just… another.
Darell picked up his car keys.
"I have a board meeting in forty-five minutes."
The assistant blinked.
"…Sir?"
"I'm leaving."
"What about the woman?"
For the first time, Darell looked back at Shirley.
His expression never changed.
"She's an adult."
Then he looked away.
"She'll figure it out."
With that, he walked toward the door.
No goodbye.
No apology.
No concern.
The suite door closed behind him with a soft click.
Shirley sat frozen, clutching the sheets around herself as the television continued to replay the same breaking news banner.
WHO IS DARELL DUANE'S MYSTERY WOMAN?
Outside, camera shutters erupted like gunfire.
Inside, Shirley's quiet, ordinary life had just shattered—and she hadn't even stepped out of the hotel room yet.