One Wrong Night With My Billionaire Chief

That night, I thought I was just doing the decent thing—getting a drugged man back to his room. The moment the door shut, the air turned white-hot. He caught my wrist and pinned me against the door, his breath scorching, his voice rough and fraying at the edges. “Don’t go.” I should’ve walked away. Instead, his trembling fingers and the kiss that felt like a plea knocked every thought out of my head. Fabric slipped, heartbeats slammed, sheets twisted into a mess. In the dark, I heard my own breath come undone—and I heard him call for me again and again, unable to say my name. By morning, he remembered nothing. He hadn’t seen my face, couldn’t trace who I was. But I knew exactly who he was—and how dangerous he’d be once he sobered up. So I buried that night in silence, played stranger, didn’t let my eyes linger. Because I knew—if he ever caught me, I wouldn’t get away.