Sloane's pov
The first thing I registered was the smell. Expensive. Clean. Like cedar and crisp linen and something else entirely masculine. It was on the pillows, the sheets, wrapped around me.
The second thing was the weight. An arm, heavy and possessive, slung across my bare waist, pinning me to a mattress that felt like a cloud.
My eyes flew open.
Oh, no.
Oh, God, no.
The hotel room was a masterpiece of minimalist luxury, all sleek lines and floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a Vegas skyline bleached pale by the morning sun. My head throbbed a vicious, familiar rhythm.
And a man. A very large, very naked, very sleeping man beside me.
Memories of the night before hit in jagged, Technicolor flashes. The wedding. My best friend Maya, glowing. Me, vowing to be the fun, single bridesmaid. The casino. The laughter. The stranger at the high-limit blackjack table who looked like sin in a Tom Ford suit. His dark eyes tracked me across the room. The dare in his smile. One more drink. His penthouse suite. His hands, confident and demanding. My own recklessness, a temporary rebellion against a life of careful control.
“This was a mistake,” I whispered to the ornate ceiling, my voice hoarse.
The arm around my waist tightened, pulling me back against a solid, warm chest. A low, sleep-roughened voice vibrated against my ear.
“It didn’t feel like a mistake a few hours ago.”
I froze, then jerked away, scrambling for the sheets and clutching them to me. He let me go, rolling onto his back with a grace that should be illegal for someone his size.
He watched me through hooded eyes, a faint, arrogant smirk playing on his lips. In the harsh daylight, he was even more devastating. Dark hair, messy from my hands. A jawline sharp enough to cut glass.
“I need to go,” I said, my eyes darting around for my clothes. A flash of scarlet silk peeked from under a chaise lounge. My bridesmaid dress. Mortification heated my cheeks.
“So soon?”
He propped himself up on an elbow. The sheet dipped low on his hips, revealing a torso carved from marble. I forced my gaze to stay on his face.
“I was thinking about room service. We never got to the eating part of the evening.”
“There is no ‘we,’” I snapped, sliding out of the bed and making a desperate grab for my dress.
“This was a one-time thing. A Vegas cliché. It’s over.”
I fumbled with the delicate straps, my back to him, feeling his gaze like a physical touch.
“A vegas cliché” he repeated, the amusement fading into something cooler.
“I see.”
“Good.” I zipped up the side, the fabric feeling ridiculous in the cold light of day. I found my heels, my small clutch. I needed to get out, to shower, to scrub the memory of his touch from my skin. To forget the way I’d…
“You don’t want my number?”
he asked. He was sitting up now, the sheet pooling in his lap. He made no move to cover himself. He was utterly, infuriatingly comfortable.
“I don’t even want your name,”
I shot back, heading for the suite door. It was a lie. A stupid, defensive lie. I knew exactly what name the wedding coordinator had whispered with reverence when pointing him out in the casino. Luca Valenti. Tech billionaire. Owns half the strip.
“How refreshing,” he said, his voice dropping, losing its playful edge.
“Most women try a lot harder to be remembered.”
The comment was a slap. It yanked me around to face him, all pretence of cool gone.
“Wow. Just… wow. Let me guess, you’re used to women scheming for a spot in this ridiculously overpriced room? Well, congratulations. You just had your one-night stand with a woman who wants absolutely nothing from you. Not your money, not your number, and certainly not a repeat performance. Consider your universe officially tilted.”
For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Not anger. Interest. Sharp, calculating interest. It was more unnerving than his smirk.
I didn’t wait for a retort. I wrenched open the heavy door and stumbled into the plush hallway.
The elevator ride down was a blur of self-recrimination. Idiot. Reckless, stupid idiot. What was I thinking? I had a plane to catch, a life to return to a life of spreadsheets, overdue bills.
A life where men like Luca Valenti were cartoon villains in the financial blogs I read, not living, breathing complications in my bed.
By the time I was in a cab, speeding toward the airport, the knot of anxiety in my stomach had tightened. I replayed the last thing he said. Most women try a lot harder to be remembered.
Arrogant bastard. I’d show him. I’d forget this ever happened. It was a blip.
As the cab merged onto the highway, I dug through my clutch for my phone to check my flight time. My fingers brushed against unfamiliar, thick cardstock.
I pulled it out. It was a simple, matte black business card. No title. No company logo. Just a name engraved in stark, silver letters.
LUCA VALENTI
And below it, a single, handwritten line in bold, black ink. A phone number.
My heart stalled. I never took his card. He must have slipped it into my clutch when I wasn’t looking. The presumption of it made my blood boil.
I was about to rip it in half, to throw the pieces out the window, when my phone buzzed in my other hand. A new email notification lit up the screen. The sender made my breath catch: Atlas Global Holdings - HR Department.
The subject line: Urgent: Mandatory All-Hands Meeting - New Leadership Transition.
A cold dread, deeper than any hangover, began to crawl up my spine. I opened the email, my eyes skimming the corporate jargon. ...exciting new chapter...strategic acquisition finalized...please welcome our new Chief Executive Officer, effective immediately...
The name at the bottom of the email wasn't the old CEO's.
It was the name on the card in my trembling hand.
The cab driver caught my wide, horrified eyes in the rearview mirror.
“Everything okay, miss?”
I couldn’t speak. I just stared at the two pieces of information. The elegant card and the stark email as the pieces clicked together with a sound like a cell door slamming shut.
My one-night stand wasn’t just a billionaire.
He was my new boss.
