TOM'S POV — Seven Years Ago (The Gala Night)I stumbled out of the ballroom, loosening my tie with fumbling fingers.
The music was too loud. Everyone inside had money, connections, futures stretching out before them like golden roads. I had nothing but rejection letters and unpaid bills.
I was twenty-four and drowning—three months behind on rent, facing my fifth rejected business pitch that month. I'd only gotten into this gala because my college roommate worked security and snuck me in through the service entrance.
I found a quiet corner in the after-party lounge and collapsed into a leather chair. Someone had left a half-empty whiskey bottle on the side table. I grabbed it and drank straight from the bottle.
The burn felt good. It made everything fuzzy around the edges. Made the failure hurt a little less.
I drank more. And more. The room started spinning.
"Rough night?"
I looked up. A woman in her mid-forties stood there, elegant in a black dress that probably cost more than my rent. Her eyes were sharp. Calculating.
"Something like that," I muttered.
"You don't look like you belong here." She sat down without invitation. "Struggling entrepreneur? Failed pitch? Running out of time and money?"
My jaw clenched. "What gave it away?"
"The desperation in your eyes." She sipped her wine slowly. "I recognize opportunity when I see it. And you, Tom Vager, look like a man who needs one."
My head snapped up. "How do you know my name?"
She smiled. "I make it my business to know things. Now, would you like to hear about a job opportunity, or would you rather drown in that bottle?"
"What kind of job?" My tongue felt thick.
"The kind desperate men don't ask questions about." Her voice stayed cold, detached. "Fifty thousand dollars, Tom. Tonight. Cash."
My heart jumped despite the alcohol slowing everything else down. Fifty thousand. That was rent, food, another chance at life.
"Why me?"
"Because you're drunk. Because you're desperate. Because you'll do it and hate yourself enough to never speak of it." She stood, smoothing her dress. "Room 604. Sixth floor. Twenty minutes. Do what needs to be done. Leave before midnight. Payment delivered tomorrow."
"Wait—what am I supposed to—"
But she disappeared into the crowd like smoke.
I sat there, staring at nothing. The room spun harder now. Fifty thousand dollars. Enough to survive.
I stood up. My legs felt like water beneath me.
Everything blurred—the hallway stretching endlessly, the elevator rising too fast, the numbers on doors swimming before my eyes.
The door to Room 604 was unlocked.
I pushed it open. The room was dark except for one small lamp by the bed, casting everything in shadow.
A girl lay there. White dress. Dark hair spread across the pillow. Eyes closed. Breathing slowly—too slowly, I realized dimly.
My head pounded. My vision doubled. I stumbled toward the bed, trying to focus.
The girl's face was turned away from me. I couldn't see her features clearly. Couldn't see anything clearly through the alcohol fog.
Everything felt wrong. My body moved but my mind was somewhere else, disconnected.
I need the money. I need to survive.
After that, just flashes. Darkness. The girl never moving. Her face always turned away.
When it was over, I looked down and saw blood on the white sheets. Fresh. Bright red.
My stomach dropped.
She'd been a virgin.
An unconscious, drugged girl. And I'd just...
Horror washed over me in waves. I stumbled away from the bed, barely making it to the bathroom before I threw up everything.
I left fast. Stumbled down the hallway, out into an alley where I threw up again.
The next morning, an envelope appeared at my door. Fifty thousand dollars in cash.
I stared at the money. Then threw up again.
For weeks, I tried to remember. The woman's face—blurry. The girl's face—I couldn't see it. Her age—no idea. Was she even conscious? What had I done to her?
What did I do? Who was she?
But the memories wouldn't come. Just guilt and shame eating away at me like acid.
I used the money anyway. Paid rent. Invested in a business idea. That business grew.
Within seven years, I became a billionaire.
But every single night, I dreamed about Room 604. About the girl whose face I never saw.
TOM'S POV — Three Days Before the WeddingI sat in my office, staring at the city below through floor-to-ceiling windows.
For seven years, I'd tried to bury Room 604. I donated millions to charities for assault victims. I worked eighteen-hour days until exhaustion knocked me unconscious. I refused to touch another woman—couldn't even think about intimacy without feeling sick.
Nothing helped. The guilt ate at me every single day.
My phone rang.
"Mr. Vager, there's a man here. Says he has information about your personal interests."
My jaw tightened. "Send him in."
A thin man entered, clutching a folder nervously against his chest.
"Mr. Vager. My name is Dennis Cole. I work at D'Thom Medical Center. I heard through certain channels that you've been looking for something very specific."
I leaned back in my chair, keeping my expression cold and controlled. "Get to the point."
Dennis swallowed hard. "You're looking for a virgin. Someone pure. Someone untouched."
My fingers drummed slowly on the desk. "And?"
"I know someone. A girl. Twenty-three years old. Never been with anyone. Her mother is dying. Stage four cancer. She needs fifteen million dollars for treatment."
My heart rate picked up, but I kept my face neutral. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because if you help her mother, she'd do anything you asked." Dennis licked his lips nervously. "She's desperate. Beautiful. And completely innocent."
I stood slowly and walked to the window, hands clasped behind my back.
A virgin. Someone who'd never been touched by another man. Someone pure.
Maybe—just maybe—if I could be someone's first the right way, with consent, with a contract, with control—maybe it would erase the memory of Room 604.
Maybe it would finally let me sleep at night without seeing that dark room, that girl's face turned away from me.
"What's her name?" I asked quietly.
"Aria. Aria Summer."
I turned. "And you're certain she's a virgin?"
"Positive. Her mother raised her very strictly. No boyfriends. No dates. Nothing. She's as pure as they come."
My mind raced, piecing it together.
Fifteen million dollars. A one-year contract. A virgin wife who would be mine completely, willingly, legally.
A chance to be someone's first the way it should have been.
A chance to finally feel clean.
"Get me everything you have on her," I said.
Dennis handed over the folder. "Already done, sir."
I opened it. A photograph stared back at me.
Dark hair. Soft features. Warm eyes that looked kind.
Beautiful. Innocent. Untouched.
For a moment—just a flicker—something about her face felt familiar. But I pushed the thought away.
Impossible.
"I'll make the call tonight," I said.
Dennis left, and I sat alone in my office, staring at Aria's photo.
This is it. This is how I fix myself. This is how I erase Room 604. I'll be her first. The right way. With a contract. With her consent. And maybe then, I can finally forgive myself.
I picked up my phone and dialed.
TOM'S POV — Present DayBut now, staring at those photos on my phone—Aria unconscious in a bed seven years ago—all I felt was rage.
She'd lied. She'd made a fool of me. She'd let me believe I was doing something right when all along, she'd been hiding the truth.
I'd wanted redemption.
Instead, I got another betrayal.
And this time, I wasn't going to let it slide.
I pulled out my phone and opened my contacts. Marcus Chen. The best private investigator money could buy.
I typed out a message:
"Find out everything about Aria Summer. I don't care what it costs. I want to know who she really is, what happened seven years ago, and who the hell is in those photos with her. Start immediately."
I hit send.
Aria thought she could lie to me. Thought she could play me for a fool.
She was about to learn what happened to liars in my house.