Layla
I had never been so relieved to hear the words, "You're done for the night." Claudia's voice, devoid of any warmth, had sliced through the buzzing ballroom. She had dismissed us with a curt nod, her expression as severe as it had been at the start of the evening. I slipped out of the opulent ballroom quietly, still clutching the now-empty tray, its silver surface reflecting the last lingering sparkles of the chandeliers. My legs felt like lead as I made my way toward the staff restrooms, the distant hum of conversation and laughter fading behind the thick, soundproofed doors.
My feet ached, a deep, bone-weary throb that radiated up my calves. My head buzzed with the residual energy of the night, a cacophony of hushed conversations, clinking glasses, and the relentless jazz music. And despite everything, despite the exhaustion that threatened to pull me under, I couldn't shake that one glance, that brief, unsettling eye contact with Xander Cole.
Why did that single look, so fleeting and unexpected, feel heavier than all the words I'd heard tonight, heavier than the burden of my own anxieties? It was just a look, a momentary flicker of recognition, yet it had imprinted itself on my mind, a strange, indelible mark.
I reached the staff restroom, its utilitarian starkness a jarring contrast to the hotel's grandeur, and slipped inside. The harsh fluorescent light overhead flickered slightly, casting a sickly yellow glow as I unclipped my name tag, the plastic cold against my skin, and leaned over the sink. I turned on the cold water, letting it run until it was icy, then splashed it onto my face. The shock hit me like a jolt, a physical awakening. I took a long, shuddering breath, the chill seeping into my pores, as I looked at my reflection in the smeared mirror.
Still me. My eyes, though tired, held a new glint, a strange mixture of apprehension and a nascent, unidentifiable excitement. My hair, once neatly pulled back, had escaped its confines, framing a face that felt both familiar and strangely altered.
But not the same me who had entered this hotel a few hours ago. Something within me had shifted, stretched, awakened. The girl who had walked in, desperate for tips and clinging to hope, felt a little more weathered now, a little more aware of the vast, intimidating world beyond her own.
I straightened, smoothing down the satin fabric of my dress one last time, feeling the cool slide of it against my skin. The off-shoulder design, which had made me feel "almost beautiful" earlier, now felt daring, a defiant statement in this quiet, sterile space. I took another deep breath, gathered my coat, and left the bathroom, heading toward the staff exit at the far end of the hallway.
It was quiet now, eerily so. The continuous hum of the ballroom had dulled to a distant murmur, muffled behind thick, soundproofed doors, a secret world fading into the night. My heels clicked softly, almost reverently, against the polished marble floor as I turned the corner.
And stopped dead.
Someone was leaning against the wall. A tall, dark silhouette against the dim lighting of the deserted corridor.
At first, I almost ignored him guests occasionally wandered into the wrong hallways, disoriented by the hotel's maze-like layout or perhaps a few too many glasses of champagne. But something about the way he stood, or rather slumped, caught my attention. His shoulders were too still, too rigid, yet somehow slouched. His head was slightly bowed, obscuring his face.
And then, as he shifted almost imperceptibly, I saw his face.
Xander Cole.
Every breath left my lungs, as if the air had been suddenly sucked out of the hallway. My heart lurched, a frantic drum against my ribs.
His usually sharp, piercing eyes, which had held such an intense gaze earlier, were hazy now barely open, unfocused. His perfectly tailored shirt collar was slightly askew, and he looked like he was struggling, truly struggling, to remain upright. One hand gripped the wall, his knuckles white, as if he needed it to stay standing, to prevent himself from collapsing completely.
What the hell?
"Sir?" I said cautiously, my voice a tentative whisper, stepping closer, my instincts overriding the ingrained rule of invisibility. "Mr. Cole…?"
He didn't answer. His gaze, slow and sluggish, flicked toward me, unseeing at first, then registering my presence with a strange, dazed confusion. His pupils were dilated, unnaturally wide even in the dim light. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling in uneven, strained waves. He looked like he was trying to speak, his lips parting slightly, but no words came out, just a faint, guttural sound.
No. This wasn't just exhaustion or too much champagne. Something was profoundly, terrifyingly wrong.
My heart thundered, a frantic, warning beat. Someone had done this. Someone had.
He was drugged. The realization hit me like a cold wave, sending a shiver of fear through me. What if it's poisonous.
"Hey, can you hear me?" I stepped closer, my voice gaining urgency, no longer caring that I wasn't supposed to speak to guests, let alone the most powerful, untouchable man in the building. All the rules, all the caution, evaporated in the face of his obvious distress.
He didn't respond directly, but his eyes locked with mine again for a split second, a flash of desperation, confusion, almost a silent, pleading plea for help. It was raw, vulnerable, completely at odds with his public persona.
Then his knees buckled, giving out completely.
I lunged forward just in time, my arms outstretched, catching his arm, breaking his fall. His weight was substantial, nearly pulling me down with him, but adrenaline surged through me, a primal force.
"Someone!" I started to yell, my voice cracking, but the hallway was empty, utterly deserted. Not a staff member in sight, no lurking security. The grand hotel, moments ago teeming with life, now felt like a silent, cavernous tomb.
It was just me. And him.
And suddenly, I wasn't a waitress anymore, invisible and insignificant. I was the only person in this moment who could help the most untouchable man in the room, the man who held so much power, now so utterly helpless.
And I had no idea what to do next.
"Come on… just a little further." My voice was strained, hoarse with effort. I wasn't sure how I managed to half-carry, half-drag a six-foot-something man, a dead weight against my much smaller frame, through the hallway. But adrenaline, that strange, potent elixir, made you capable of strange, impossible things. My muscles screamed in protest, but I ignored them.
His weight was heavy against me, a dead burden, but his feet still moved, barely, scuffing against the polished floor as I guided him forward. He murmured something under his breath, a slurred, incoherent sound, almost like a groan. I leaned in, trying to decipher it, but it was just garbled noise.
My eyes, scanning desperately for any sign of a way out, spotted the glint of silver. A keycard, tucked haphazardly into the breast pocket of his impeccably tailored blazer. With fumbling fingers, I managed to pull it out. The room number glowed faintly, etched in bold black print: 1702 – Presidential Suite.
Of course. Only the best for Xander Cole.
I helped him into the private elevator, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs, praying no one else would step in, praying for continued anonymity. The doors hissed shut, sealing us in the luxurious, silent capsule. We reached the top floor without interruption, the ride feeling impossibly long and unnervingly intimate. The suite door unlocked with a soft beep, a high-tech sigh, and I pushed it open with my shoulder, half-dragging him through the threshold.
The room was enormous. Dimly lit, bathed in the soft glow of distant city lights filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. A wide, inviting king-sized bed dominated the center, its pristine white duvet a beacon in the shadows. A sleek, modern bar tucked discreetly in the corner promised expensive spirits. But I barely glanced at any of it, my focus entirely on the man leaning heavily against me.
I guided him toward the bed, breathless now, my arm looped tightly around his waist, his arm slung over my shoulder. "You're almost there," I murmured, my voice ragged, pushing him gently.
The moment his knees hit the edge of the plush mattress, his body seemed to give in entirely, slumping forward. I leaned forward to ease him down, my muscles screaming in protest, but as I straightened to let go, his arms suddenly tightened around my waist, an unexpected vice-like grip.
"Wait—" I gasped, surprised by the sudden, intense strength, by the unexpected pull.
Before I could move, before I could even process what was happening, he pulled me with surprising force, a primal, undeniable tug—and suddenly, I was tumbling down, landing on the bed beside him with a soft thud, the mattress sinking beneath us.
"Mr. Cole—?" My voice was a startled whisper, caught in my throat.
But then, his hand, surprisingly gentle yet firm, was in my hair, cradling the back of my head. His lips, urgent and demanding, crashed against mine.
My heart slammed into my ribs, a frantic hummingbird trapped in a cage.
His kiss was hungry. Fierce. Untamed. And I should have pulled away. I should have stopped it right there, should have remembered my place, his condition, the impossible chasm between us, but his touch sent a searing heat pouring through me like wildfire, igniting something deep within that I hadn't known existed. His mouth moved over mine with a raw intensity, desperate and searching, his grip tight but trembling with a barely contained tremor.
"Stay," he murmured against my lips, his voice hoarse and thick, a desperate plea that resonated deep within me. "Don't leave."
It was the first clear, coherent thing he'd said all night. The unexpected clarity, the sheer vulnerability in his tone, utterly disarmed me.
I tried to speak, tried to make sense of what was happening, tried to articulate the dizzying confusion swirling in my mind, but then his mouth moved down my neck, sending shivers through me. His hand, warm and possessive, brushed the thin strap of my dress off my shoulder, baring my skin to his touch.
And suddenly, irrevocably, my body betrayed me.
The electricity in his touch, a searing current that pulsed through every nerve ending, the raw desperation in his kiss, the way his fingers explored me as if he'd already memorized the shape of me, the curve of my hip, the soft skin of my inner thigh, every single part of me responded, an undeniable, visceral reaction, even as my mind screamed confusion, alarm, and a faint, distant warning.
His suit jacket was gone, somehow discarded in the passionate urgency. His shirt half-open, revealing a taut, muscular chest. And his mouth returned to mine again and again, devouring me like I was air and he couldn't breathe without me, like I was the very essence of life he craved.
Clothes melted to the floor, forgotten, forming a discarded pile on the plush carpet. Breathless gasps filled the opulent room, mingling with the soft murmurs of unspoken desires.
And when he finally pushed into me, slowly, deeply, exquisitely, I forgot my name.
I forgot the rules.
I forgot that he was Xander Cole, the untouchable billionaire… and I was just Layla, the anonymous waitress.
When it was over, the room was quiet. A profound, almost sacred silence had fallen, broken only by the soft, rhythmic sounds of our breathing.
He lay beside me, his breathing slower now, deeper, the ragged edge gone. His fingers, still tangled with mine, were a warm, comforting weight. He was asleep, finally, his body heavy with exhaustion and whatever had been forced into him.
But I didn't sleep. Sleep felt like an impossible luxury.
I stared up at the ceiling, at the faint patterns cast by the city lights outside, my heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs. The crushing weight of realization settled over me, cold and undeniable.
I had just spent the night with Xander Cole.
The clock on the wall, a sleek, minimalist design, read 3:42 AM. The numbers glowed a soft, ethereal blue in the profound darkness of the room.
The room was bathed in shadows, the faint, distant hum of the city lights outside blending with the soft, steady rise and fall of his breathing. Xander lay still deep asleep, utterly unconscious of my turmoil, his arm draped across the sheets, one hand curled near where I had once been, a silent testament to the intimacy that had just transpired.
I sat at the edge of the bed, the cool silk sheets a stark contrast to the burning sensation on my skin. Silently, mechanically, I pulled the strap of my dress back over my shoulder, the satin material rustling softly in the stillness.
My body still ached from his touch, a sweet, profound ache that permeated every muscle, every nerve.
My lips were swollen, tender from the intensity of his kisses. My skin still burned from where his mouth had traveled, leaving a trail of warmth and memory. And my mind…
My mind was chaos. A swirling vortex of disbelief, confusion, shame, and a strange, undeniable echo of pleasure.
What had I done? The question screamed in my head, raw and accusing.
I glanced back at him, forcing myself to look.
He looked different in sleep. Peaceful. Human. The hard lines of power and wealth that etched his public face had softened, smoothed away by unconsciousness. For a moment, he looked like just a man—not the billionaire whose name made headlines, not the man who owned half the skyline, not the ruthless titan of industry. Just a man, vulnerable and disarmed.
I stood up slowly, gathering the last piece of my dress from the floor, my movements silent, deliberate. I stepped into my heels with quiet, careful motions, the faint click of them a jarring sound in the stillness. I found my thin coat hanging over a plush chair and wrapped it around myself, gripping it tightly across my chest, as if it could somehow hold the truth within its flimsy fabric.
The truth?
I had slept with a man I barely knew. A man who, given his drugged state, had barely known me.
He was drugged, intoxicated beyond reason, and I had been swept up in something wild and unplanned, a storm of desperate passion and my own confused yearning.
He wouldn't even remember me.
That single, devastating thought echoed louder than all the others, chilling me to the bone. It was a brutal truth, a cold comfort.
And that was why I had to leave. Before the sun came up. Before the world woke and reminded me that I didn't belong in this opulent suite, or in his impossibly distant, powerful life.
I slipped out of the room, the heavy door closing with a soft, almost imperceptible click behind me. The hotel halls were eerily quiet now, completely deserted. No lingering guests. No vigilant security. Just the faint, distant hum of the building's machinery and my own heartbeat thudding in my ears, a frantic, desperate rhythm.
By the time I reached the back exit, the staff door, and stepped into the early morning air, the city was just beginning to yawn awake. Streetlights flickered, their golden glow momentarily struggling against the approaching dawn. A lone taxi passed, its engine a low rumble, the only sign of life on the silent street.
I stood there for a long moment, coat wrapped tight around me, arms crossed tightly over my chest, breathing in the heavy silence, the scent of exhaust and damp concrete mingling with the faint, lingering perfume of The Argent.
This had to stay a secret.
No one could ever know.
Not Naomi, with her knowing smiles and endless questions. Not my mother, whose frail heart couldn't bear another worry.
Not even Xander Cole especially not him.
It was just one night.
A night I would never, ever forget.
A night that means nothing to him.