The kiss deepened, accompanied by soft moans that seemed to invite something more, drawing them further into the sweet haze of it.
Lyra's body arched slightly without realizing it, responding to every touch the man gave her. The distance between them grew thinner until there was no space left except the warmth they shared.
The man's breath sounded heavy in her ear so warm, and trembling.
Lyra closed her eyes, letting herself be completely carried away, forgetting the pain of being betrayed.
Her hand slowly pressed against the man's chest, as if trying to make sure that all of this was real, that she was not alone and that he was responding to her.
The man pulled Lyra closer, deeper into his embrace, as if unwilling to let her go even for a second.
The night went on, the dim light concealing everything, leaving only soft shadows moving slowly along the walls.
In the warmth that still lingered in their breaths, two wounded hearts sought escape in each other, in a warmth that even they knew should never have happened.
After who knows how many times they drifted into a sweet exhaustion, Lyra finally fell asleep.
Her body rested against the man's chest, her breathing gradually becoming steady. The man turned his head, his gaze falling on Lyra's face, partially covered by strands of her hair.
Slowly, his hand moved, brushing away the strands of hair that covered her face.
"I won't let you go again," he murmured softly.
His voice was low, almost like a whisper meant only for himself.
"Tomorrow morning, you might be angry, but this time, I won't let you walk away just like that."
He lowered his head, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Lyra's head, as if this night meant more than just an escape.
Morning came quietly. A thin stream of sunlight slipped through the gap in the curtains, gently touching Lyra's face.
Her eyelids fluttered. Slowly, she opened her eyes. The first thing she saw was a man's broad chest.
Lyra froze. A few seconds passed before her awareness fully returned.
Her hand lifted, holding her head, which felt heavy. Memories of last night came back in fragments blurred, incomplete, yet enough to make her heart beat uneasily.
She only remembered that last night, she had ordered several men. However, only one had come.
Yet the man's voice deep, calm, and for some reason, so firmly imprinted in her memory remained.
Lyra let out a soft breath. Slowly, she got up from the bed, trying not to make any noise.
Her eyes swept across the room until they finally stopped on her clothes scattered on the floor.
Remnants of a heated night meant to briefly forget the betrayal of her fiancé with her closest friend. She crouched down, picking up her clothes one by one, then quickly put them on.
When she turned back, the man shifted slightly, changing his sleeping position until his back was now facing her.
Lyra paused for a moment. There was something strange in her chest, a feeling she could not explain. But she brushed it off this was only one night, nothing more.
She stepped down from the bed, grabbed her small bag, then took her phone. Quickly, she contacted her assistant and sent her location.
After that, her hand moved to open her wallet. She took out fifteen one-hundred-euro bills and placed them on the nightstand, right beside the man.
Her movement hesitated for a moment, but she still left them there, without words and without explanation. Payment for the man she had ordered.
Lyra turned around, walking toward the door, then paused briefly before leaving. She pulled a mask from her bag and put it on.
As a famous model, as well as the heir to the largest hotel and property empire in Italy, Lyra could not afford to be involved in any scandal. Reputation was everything, and whatever had happened last night must not leave even the slightest trace.
Without hesitation, Lyra opened the door and stepped out, leaving the man still asleep inside.
The man she left behind slowly opened his eyes. The morning light slipping through the curtains felt slightly blinding. He blinked a few times, then lifted his body, sitting on the edge of the bed while holding his head, which felt heavy.
The remnants of last night's alcohol still left a dull throb at his temples. He let out a long breath.
Slowly, his gaze shifted to the other side of the bed. Empty, there was no one there.
The rumpled sheets were the only sign that he had not been alone last night.
Lucien fell silent for a moment. Memories of that night began to return fragmented, blurred, yet clear enough to make his jaw tighten.
Last night was supposed to be different. A night he had planned perfectly.
He had left the company event early, just to celebrate his third anniversary with the woman he loved.
That place was not just any place. It was where he had first asked that woman to be his girlfriend.
Everything had been carefully prepared. The dining table was perfectly arranged. The atmosphere had been set just right. Even the words for his proposal had been thoughtfully composed.
But the woman never came.
One hour.
Two hours.
Three hours.
He waited.
Until finally, his assistant arrived with news that shattered everything. Tania Rosalinda, the woman he had intended to propose to, had gone to America, leaving him just like that.
Tania chose her ballet career over him. Without a single word, without an explanation, and without a goodbye.
His jaw tightened as he remembered it. The table he had prepared that night was completely destroyed by his own anger.
Lucien Withmore, the heir of Luxora Holdings ended up in a nightclub, a place he usually visited just for a drink, not to forget.
But that night was different. He drank more than usual far more until eventually, he saw someone. The silhouette of a woman who, for a moment, he thought was Tania.
He had even felt a surge of anger. How could that woman show up just like that after disappearing, and then casually reach for his glass?
Tania never drank whisky. She only ever touched wine or champagne.
That was what made him angry, because Tania was drinking something she never drank. Lucien roughly rubbed his face, trying to remember more clearly.
But what remained were only blurred fragments of memory.
The sound of breath.
Touch.
Warmth.
And one thing that, for some reason, was clearly imprinted in his mind a red, abstract-shaped mark on the woman's chest.
Lucien fell silent, his expression hardening.
"Who was she…?" he murmured softly.
He was certain the woman last night was not Tania. Lucien knew the body of the woman who had been with him all this time very well, every curve, every small detail that had never escaped his memory.
And not once had Tania ever had that abstract red mark.
His jaw tightened. "I couldn't have seen it wrong…" he muttered, his voice low and heavy.
But the more he recalled it, the clearer it became that the woman was truly someone else.
"Then… who was she?" he asked again, more softly, almost like a whisper that faded into the air.
His gaze shifted to the side. And that was when he saw it, several bills neatly placed on the nightstand.
For a moment, his mind went blank. Lucien's eyes widened, unable to believe what he was seeing.
Slowly, he reached for the money. His fingers tensed. He pulled back the blanket, as if hoping to find something else a clue, anything that could explain this situation.
But what he found instead made his breath catch.
A red stain on the sheets.
Lucien fell silent.
His brows furrowed deeply.
"The first time…?" he murmured, his voice almost inaudible.
There was something strange in his chest not pity, nor regret. More like a turmoil he could not understand.
Even with Tania, he had not been the first. But the woman last night…
His jaw tightened again. His thoughts were abruptly cut off as he looked back at the money in his hand.
His gaze changed.
Cold.
Sharp.
And within seconds, the anger erupted in silence. His fingers clenched the money tightly until the paper crumpled.
The pride of a man like Lucien Whitmore, treated like this?
Paid?
As if he were nothing more than a cheap man who could be bought for a night?
A small, bitter laugh escaped his lips very soft, and cold.
Something inside him felt like it had cracked. Not because he was hurt, but because his pride had been mercilessly trampled.
Lucien picked up his phone with a sharp motion.
"Find out who the woman was who was with me last night," he said coldly as soon as the call connected. "I want her identity now."
He ended the call without waiting for a response. His hand was still gripping the money.
His grip tightened, and his gaze darkened.
"I will find you…" he said quietly, yet every word sounded like a threat.
"And when that happens…"
A faint, cold smile appeared on his lips, devoid of any warmth.
"You will know what it feels like to humiliate the wrong person."
His eyes narrowed, filled with anger and something far more dangerous than that, an obsession to conquer the woman so she would never look down on him again.