Anabella Pov
I wake up to the oppressive heat of two bodies pressed against me. I'm naked, tangled in silky sheets that smell of expensive cologne.
I sit up, my head pounding, and look down. Two naked men, one on each side. The dark-haired man's features are softened in sleep; his jaw is relaxed. On the other side is the man with golden hair, his face serene.
My heart begins to pound, a slow, terrifying drum. The dark-haired man is Killian Astor. The other is Luciano Pavarotti. I stifle a scream. My boss and his rival. I have slept with both of them.
A cold wave of reality crashes over me, instantly sobering me more than any amount of coffee could. Panic, sharp and visceral, claws at my throat. Oh my God. Oh my God.
My mind races, trying to piece together the blurred fragments of the night before. I remember the punch, the dizzying, arousing haze, the dark hallway, the overwhelming heat of two men. But the details are lost, a terrifying, foggy blur that leaves me with only this horrifying reality.
My body feels heavy and used, a dull ache throbbing in my thighs and a raw sensitivity between my legs. My limbs feel like they're made of lead, trembling and weak, as if they've worked beyond their limit. I can barely feel my legs, and the realization of just how thoroughly I was "wrecked" for the entire night sends a fresh jolt of terror through me.
I have to get out of here. Now.
Carefully, so carefully, I untangle myself from the sheets, my movements agonizingly slow as I try not to wake them. Each small shift of the silk fabric against my skin feels like a scream waiting to happen. I slide off the bed, my bare feet landing silently on the plush carpet. My head pounds in a rhythm of self-loathing and fear. You idiot. You absolute, complete idiot.
My clothes are a disaster, scattered across the floor in a haphazard trail of regret. The sapphire blue dress is a crumpled heap near the door, a dark stain still visible on the fabric. My heels, delicate and strappy, lie on their side, a monument to a night gone horribly, irreversibly wrong.
I find my underwear and a small top, slipping them on quickly. My hands shake so badly I can barely manage the straps. The rest of my things, my purse, my phone, the very last of my dignity, are nowhere to be seen.
A frantic search begins, a silent, desperate scramble. My eyes dart around the suite, taking in the grand furniture and expensive artwork, none of which provides comfort.
The bathroom door is slightly ajar, and I push it open, my heart in my throat. Nothing. The sitting area? I tiptoe past the sleeping men, my gaze flitting over their peaceful beautiful faces. Luciano's hair is golden in the morning light, his expression angelic. Killian's dark hair is tousled, and his face, usually so severe, looks surprisingly peaceful.
What if they don't remember? The thought, a flicker of desperate, idiotic hope, enters my mind.
What if it was a mutual blackout? What if the alcohol erased it from their memories? It's a ridiculous, childish fantasy, but it's the only thing keeping me from screaming and collapsing in a heap. Yes, that has to be it. If they don't remember, if I can just disappear before they wake up, maybe, just maybe, I can pretend this never happened. It's better that way. For all of us.
I spot my clutch on a side table, I grab it, my fingers fumbling with the clasp. My phone is inside. I pull it out, the screen lighting up to reveal a stream of notifications and a handful of missed calls from Claire, my best friend.
The sight of her name makes my eyes sting. I don't have the strength to call her. Not yet. I need to process this alone. I need to be a thousand miles away from here before I can even begin to think about what to tell her.
I clutch the bag to my chest like a shield, my heels clutched in my free hand. My reflection in a nearby mirror is a terrifying sight.
My hair is a tangled mess, my eyes are wide and rimmed with red, and my face is pale. I look like a woman who has just been to hell and back. My dress is stained, my body aches, and my mind is a mess of fragmented memories and paralyzing fear. I can't even stand straight. How in the name of all that is holy am I going to walk into work and pretend that nothing happened?
I creep out of the suite, the heavy door clicking shut behind me, the sound echoing like a final, damning verdict. The empty hallway is a welcome sight.
I break into a shaky run, my bare feet slapping against the marble floor, not stopping until I reach the main lobby. Outside, the city is just beginning to stir. I flag down a cab, throw myself into the back seat, and give the driver my address.
As the car pulls away, I stare at my phone, the missed calls from Claire a silent accusation. I can't feel my legs, my head is spinning, and I can't fully remember the night. All I know is that I have just committed career suicide and possibly much, much worse.
The taxi pulled up to the familiar curb of my apartment building. I fumbled with my clutch, my fingers numb as I paid the driver. The ride was faster than I imagined it to be.
Climbing out, I clutched my heels in my free hand and stumbled toward the entrance. My heart, a panicked drum, hammered against my ribs, each beat a fresh reminder of the night. You're home. You're safe. Just get inside.
The moment I pushed open the heavy glass door, the words died in my throat. Claire was sitting on the loveseat in the lobby, her face filled with worry. She was in a hoodie and sweatpants, clutching a mug of tea, and my spare key was clutched in her hand. The sight of her made my carefully constructed composure crumble.
"Annabella! Thank God!" she exclaimed, rushing over to me. Her eyes scanned me from head to toe, taking in my disheveled hair, my stained dress, and the bare, bruised feet holding my heels.
"I've been calling you for hours! I almost called the police! Where have you been? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine, Claire. I just... I lost my phone, and I got a little carried away. I'm okay," I lied, my voice a shaky whisper. I tried to walk past her, desperate to get into the safety of my apartment.
But Claire blocked my way, her expression firm. "Don't you dare lie to me. You are not fine. You look like you've been to a war zone. Who was the guy? Was he an asshole? What happened?" she demanded, her voice full of concern.
The questions were like a series of punches. My composure shattered. The truth, ugly and horrifying, clawed at my throat. My body started to shake uncontrollably, and I leaned against the cold lobby wall, my legs giving out.
Tears streamed down my face, hot and salty, and my chest seized up. I gasped for air, but it wouldn't come. My vision blurred. I was a hyperventilating mess, the sheer horror of the situation crashing down on me.
"Oh my God, Bella!" Claire cried, her face filled with alarm. She wrapped her arms around me and guided me to the loveseat. She held me tight until my breathing started to even out. I buried my face in her chest, the scent of her fabric softener a small comfort.
"There were two of them," I whispered, the words barely audible. "Two. My boss and his rival."
Claire's arms tightened around me. "What? Who?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Killian Astor...and...and Luciano Pavarotti," I sobbed into her chest.
She gasped, pulling back to look at me, her eyes wide with shock and disbelief. "No way. Are you serious?" she asked. When I could only nod, she let out a long, slow breath.
"Okay. Okay. Breathe. It's going to be okay. Listen to me. Maybe they don't remember. You were both really drunk, right? Maybe it was a mutual blackout. They'll probably be too embarrassed to even mention it."
Her words were a lifeline, a small flicker of hope in the darkness. "But... but I'm not sure they used protection," I whispered, the thought sending a fresh jolt of terror through me.
Claire froze for a second, then quickly regained her composure. "Okay. We'll deal with it. It's not the end of the world. We'll go to the nearest pharmacy right now and get you some emergency contraception. You're a smart girl, you can handle this." She squeezed my hand and looked at me with an unwavering gaze.
"Now listen to me. On Monday, you go to work and you act like nothing happened. Don't look them in the eye. Don't stutter. Act normal. They won't suspect a thing."
I hope this works out, if not I'm probably going to be living on the streets