The taste of betrayal still burned on Anya's tongue as she slammed another shot of vodka down her throat. The bar lights blurred, laughter spun around her, but all she could feel was the ache of her heart splintering into pieces.
Her boyfriend—no, her ex—hadn't just cheated. He had humiliated her, choosing another woman without hesitation, like their years together meant nothing.
"Forget him," her friend slurred beside her. "You deserve better."
Better. The word echoed hollow in her head. What was better? At that moment, better meant numbness, and alcohol was the closest thing to it.
By the time she staggered into the hotel elevator, her vision was swimming. She squinted at the room number written on a slip of paper, mumbled it under her breath, then fumbled the key card against the door.
Click. The lock gave way.
"Finally," she whispered, kicking off her heels and stumbling inside. The lights were dim, the room smelled faintly of cologne and something crisp, clean. Not that she noticed. She collapsed face-first onto the soft bed, sighing into the pillows like they were her salvation.
The bathroom door creaked open.
A tall man stepped out, steam curling around him. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, hair damp, droplets of water sliding down a sharp jawline. But his eyes froze when he saw her sprawled across his bed.
"What the hell—" His voice cut like steel.
Anya groaned, rolling over. "Ugh, can you…not yell? I'm trying to sleep here."
His brows shot up. A stranger. In his room. On his bed.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.