LAYLA'S POV
I didn't go home right away.
I couldn't.
Instead, I sat alone on a weathered bench near the bus station, watching the city wake up around me. Delivery vans rumbled past. Street sweepers cleared away last night's glitter. A man in a crisp suit walked by, briefcase swinging. The world moved on—calm, composed, indifferent.
And I sat there, arms wrapped around my middle, feeling like the ground had cracked open and I was dangling somewhere in between.
I kept replaying it all. Over and over. His eyes. His touch. His desperation. His voice.
"Stay."
"Don't leave."
How could I not be confused when everything about that night had blurred the line between right and wrong, real and unreal?
He was drugged. Vulnerable. Barely conscious.
And I… I didn't stop it.
The thought made me sick.
A small part of me argued that he'd wanted it. That he had kissed me, touched me, spoken to me like he knew me. Like he needed me. But another part whispered, He wasn't fully in control.
And you let it happen anyway.
I buried my face in my hands, my palms ice cold.
When the first bus arrived, I got on without thinking, without checking the route. I just needed to move—to disappear into the city, to hide from the weight of my own guilt.
---
Hours later, I finally made it home.
Mama was still asleep. Thank God.
I peeled off my clothes like they were soaked in sin and shame, shoved the dress into a plastic bag, and stuffed it into the back of my closet. I didn't want to look at it again. Not now. Maybe not ever.
I showered until the water ran cold and my skin turned red.
But I still didn't feel clean.
---
XANDER'S POV
The light bleeding through the sheer curtains was cruel.
It stabbed into my skull like a knife, slicing through my temples, my neck, my entire brain. Every muscle ached, every nerve ending was on fire, and my throat burned like I'd swallowed a thousand needles.
I sat up too fast.
Bad idea.
The room tilted sharply, the walls seeming to pulse with each thud of my heartbeat. I groaned and pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead.
My shirt was open. My belt was off. The sheets were tangled around me.
And she was gone.
The girl.
Her.
Layla.
The name came to me like a whisper, unspoken and yet deeply known. I didn't even remember hearing it aloud, but her face… her face I remembered with startling clarity.
Big, curious eyes. A soft mouth. Long brown hair that had come undone by the end of the night. That elegant black dress sliding off her shoulder like it had no business staying on.
And the way she had looked at me—not with calculation or seduction, but concern. Pure, terrified concern.
She had helped me.
Carried me. Dragged me into the suite. Stayed.
And I had kissed her.
No, more than that. I had clung to her like a dying man clings to air. I could still feel the heat of her skin, the softness of her breath, the way her hands trembled when they touched me like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to.
I remembered all of it.
The panic in her eyes.
The urgency in her voice.
The way she whispered, "You're going to be okay."
And I'd believed her.
Because somehow, she had made me feel safe.
Me. The man who trusts no one.
---
What the hell had happened to me?
The last thing I remembered before the ballroom dimmed into a blur was raising a glass for the toast. My assistant had handed it to me—his face as blank as ever. I took two sips, maybe three. And then…
Black.
But not the kind of blackout you get from alcohol. No, I know my limits. I built those limits for a reason. And I don't lose control.
Unless someone takes it from me.
I'd been drugged.
And she had found me.
---
I got out of bed and moved stiffly across the suite, picking up the jacket she must have helped me take off. I searched the pockets.
Nothing.
No note. No name. No clue.
Just the faintest trace of perfume, something floral and faintly sweet—like jasmine in the rain.
I stared at the crumpled sheets, jaw tight.
Who was she?
And why had she run?
She could've taken anything. My wallet. My watch. My laptop. Hell, she could've recorded the whole night and sold it for millions.
But she didn't.
She just… left.
And something about that made my chest feel like it was splintering from the inside out.
---
But I had seen her before.
Just hours before that night unraveled, I'd caught a glimpse of her in the ballroom. A server. Holding a tray of champagne. Her eyes had caught mine—just for a second—and it had stopped me cold.
Something about her expression. Her stillness in the sea of motion. Like she didn't belong there, but was holding herself together anyway.
I remembered that look.
Because it was the same one I used to see in the mirror when I was younger—back when I was still surviving, not winning.
She had looked at me like I was a storm she didn't want to be swept into.
And then she'd walked straight into the heart of it.
---
I pressed a button on the suite's wall panel.
"Caleb," I said when my assistant picked up. "Get me the staff roster from the gala. Both workers and any extras that were hired."
"Yes sir." he replied and I ended the call. I stood up from the bed to freshen up. When I stepped out of the bathroom, I knew something was up.
Picking my phone, I called Caleb again. "What's going on?" I asked.
"Someone tipped the media saying you have a woman with you." he replied.
Whoever planned it really thought this through. And to think I did but she already left.
I dressed up, ready to attend to the noisy reporters who acts like packs of wolves, hungry for information. Flashes went off like fireworks as soon as I opened the door.
"Mr. Cole! Who was the woman with you last night?"
"Is it true you were seen drunk and escorted by an unknown woman?"
"Was she an escort? A date? A scandal in the making?"
I didn't flinch. I'd been trained for this kind of thing since I took over my first company at twenty-two. Control the narrative. Own the space. Never let them see your panic.
"There was no such thing, and it's all a rumour. I have no time for such scandal circulating around. If I find any wrong information online, I am suing." I said, shutting them down immediately.
Most of them retracted their microphones, they knew I really meant what I said. I closed the door and returned to take a seat.
LAYLA'S POV
The next few days passed in a blur of silence, routines, and numbness.
I didn't tell Naomi what happened after we stopped working.
What could I even say?
"Oh, after the job, I ended up in the penthouse suite with Xander Cole, then bolted like a thief in the night."
Yeah. No.
Instead, I buried myself in my café shifts. I scrubbed counters harder than necessary. I took extra tables. I worked double hours when I could. Anything to keep my mind busy, my body exhausted, and my thoughts away from him.
But it wasn't easy.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hands. The warmth. The weight. The whispered plea.
Stay.
And every time, I woke up with my heart thudding and my sheets twisted around me like bindings.
---
I avoided the news, which wasn't hard. We didn't have cable at home, and Mama had stopped buying newspapers years ago. But I heard whispers.
Customers at the café murmuring about "some billionaire caught in a scandal" and "an anonymous woman seen entering the Argent penthouse." I tuned it out. I had to. I couldn't afford to fall apart.
Not now.
I kept my head down. Paid for Mama's prescriptions. Ate what I could. Slept when the nightmares let me. And somehow, time kept moving.
But nothing felt the same.
Something inside me had cracked open that night. Something raw and trembling and irrevocable. And though I'd walked away, though I'd tried to pretend it didn't mean anything, the truth sat like a stone in my chest.
It meant something.
To me, at least.
---
One night, while Mama slept and the apartment was quiet, I sat on my bed with a notebook in my lap. Pages filled with numbers, plans, and grocery lists.
But my pen didn't move.
Instead, my eyes drifted to the crumpled plastic bag shoved deep in the back of my closet—the one with the black dress. I hadn't touched it since I stuffed it away, but now… I stood up slowly and pulled it out.
The fabric was still soft, still faintly scented with hotel perfume and regret.
I stared at it for a long time, then folded it neatly, placed it in a box, and pushed it under my bed.
Out of sight.
But not out of mind.
---
XANDER'S POV
The buzz died down after seventy-two hours. As I predicted.
The media had a new scandal to feast on—a pop star's affair with her backup dancer. Good. Let them chase glitter.
Caleb handed me the staff list like I asked, but I never opened the file. I told him I'd changed my mind. That I didn't need distractions right now.
The truth?
I couldn't explain why I didn't search harder. Why I didn't hunt her down or question every staff member in that building. I could've. I had the power, the money, the reach. But something about it… stopped me.
Maybe it was guilt.
Maybe it was fear of what I'd see in her eyes if I found her again.
Maybe it was the way she looked at me before disappearing—like she already knew how much damage I could do.
Or maybe it was the quiet, echoing truth I hadn't said out loud:
I didn't deserve to find her.
Not yet.