I Don't Believe in Second Chances
I don't believe in second chances.
Not in love.
Not in timing.
And certainly not in men who look like they've never been told no a day in their lives.
Which is why the first thing I felt when I opened my eyes was not panic.
It was irritation.
The sheets beneath me were silk.
That was how I knew something was wrong.
I don't own silk sheets. I own breathable cotton. Practical. Washable. Replaceable.
Silk is for people who believe comfort is a right.
My head throbbed faintly as I stared at the unfamiliar ceiling — white, high, trimmed with elegant crown moulding that whispered old money instead of screaming new wealth.
Memory didn't rush back.
It slipped in slowly.
Champagne.
Too much of it.
A charity gala I hadn't even wanted to attend. Too much scrutiny and stare downs. If only they knew who I was.
And a pair of eyes that had watched me like I was an unsolved equation throughout the event.
I sat up abruptly.
The room was large — larger than my entire apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed pale morning light to spill across dark hardwood floors. Minimalist decor. Clean lines. Intentional design.
Nothing personal.
Everything curated.
My dress — black, backless, recklessly expensive hung over a chair like it had been placed there carefully.
Not tossed.
My heels sat neatly by the door.
My pulse quickened.
I scanned the room for signs of disaster.
No scattered clothing.
No unfamiliar marks on my skin.
No dull ache of regret.
I exhaled slowly.
The bathroom door clicked open.
And then he stepped out.
For a split second, my brain stalled.
Because men like that don't step out of bathrooms in real life.
They exist in controlled environments where power was the compass and a single personal request could Tip the scales.
He wore black slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm. The top button undone. Dark hair slightly tousled in a way that suggested he'd run his hand through it once and left it there.
His gaze lifted.
Locked onto mine.
No surprise.
No embarrassment.
Just quiet assessment.
"Good morning," he said.
His voice was low. Even. Controlled in a way that made you wonder what it would sound like without restraint.
I swung my legs off the bed, standing slowly. "Where am I?"
"My home."
Of course it is.
I crossed my arms. Defensive instinct. "Why am I in your home?"
His expression didn't change. "You refused to get into your driver's car."
"I have a driver?"
"You did last night."
I winced.
That tracked.
"You also informed me," he continued calmly, "that I was arrogant, morally suspicious, and emotionally constipated."
I stared at him.
"I said emotionally constipated?"
"You elaborated."
Heat crawled up my neck. "Did I insult you in complete sentences?"
"Yes."
"That's unfortunate."
His mouth twitched barely. "I found it refreshing."
I ignored that. "Did I sleep with you?"
There it was.
Clinical. Direct.
He didn't look offended.
He looked interested.
"No."
The single word was firm.
Relief flooded me before I could stop it.
"You fell asleep in the car," he added. "I wasn't going to leave you there."
I studied him carefully now.
Tall. Composed. Broad-shouldered without trying. The kind of man who understood silence and used it as leverage.
"You could have taken me home."
"You wouldn't tell me your address."
"That sounds responsible of me."
"It sounded stubborn."
I moved toward my dress and slipped it on, aware of his eyes tracking every movement — not hungrily.
Precisely.
"What's your name?" he asked.
I paused.
"Lyra."
He repeated it slowly. "Lyra."
Something about the way he said it made it feel like a decision.
"And you are?" I asked.
A beat of silence.
"Nicolas."
Just Nicolas.
No last name.
No elaboration.
Men who introduce themselves that way expect recognition.
I gave him none.
"Well, Nicolas," I said, smoothing my dress, "thank you for not committing a felony."
His gaze sharpened slightly. "You assume I would?"
"I assume nothing. I always prepare myself for possibilities."
He took a step closer.
Not invading.
But close enough that the air shifted.
"You weren't in danger."
"Men who say that are usually the danger."
His jaw tightened — barely.
"You think you know me."
"I don't need to."
A flicker passed through his eyes then. Something darker.
"You don't belong in rooms like that," he said.
My spine stiffened. "Excuse me?"
"The gala," he clarified. "You were the only person not performing."
"And that bothered you?"
"It intrigued me."
There it was again.
That word.
Like I was an object placed in front of him for examination.
I moved toward the door.
"Last night was a lapse in judgment," I said evenly. "I don't repeat lapses."
"You believe in no second chances."
I froze.
"How did you—"
"You said it. On the balcony."
The balcony.
Memory sharpened.
The cold air. The city lights. The way he'd joined me uninvited.
"You don't look impressed," he'd said.
"I'm not," I'd replied.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Someone used to being known."
His lips had curved then.
"You're bold."
"I'm observant."
Now, standing in his bedroom, that same current hummed between us.
"I don't believe in second chances," I repeated.
"Not even for yourself?" he asked quietly.
That one landed deeper than it should have.
I opened the door.
Two men in suits stood outside.
Security.
Of course.
I turned slowly back to him.
"You had guards outside the entire time?"
"They're always outside."
"Do they usually guard women in your bedroom?"
"No."
The answer was immediate.
Something in my chest tightened.
I hated that it mattered.
"Have a car take her home," he instructed one of the guards without looking away from me.
"I can manage myself."
"I'm sure you can," he replied calmly. "But you won't."
Infuriating.
Controlled.
Certain.
I stepped into the hallway, refusing to look back.
But I felt it.
His gaze.
Heavy.
Intentional.
Not possessive.
Not yet.
But assessing.
As if he hadn't decided whether I was a mistake.
Or an investment.
The elevator doors closed between us.
And for the first time since waking up, something unfamiliar stirred beneath my irritation.
Not fear.
Not attraction.
Something more dangerous.
Recognition.
I don't believe in second chances.
But as the car door opened for me downstairs, a quiet certainty settled into my bones.
Men like Nicolas don't let accidents remain accidents.
And somehow, without realizing it—
I had just become one.