Rosie's POV
"My sweet Rosie, how dare you forget me?"
A deep and husky voice. It tickled my ear. It triggered something in my stomach. It sent shivers down my spine.
Who was that? Who was with me?
"Did you really not remember, or you're just pretending?"
I felt his hands on my legs, caressing me there.
I didn't like it when someone touched me there because it tickled, but strangely, I liked his touch. I liked the warmth of his palm. It felt so familiar. It felt so intimate.
In all my 26 years, only one person had ever reached that hidden, vulnerable part of me. "I am the thorn in your beautiful paradise. Remember that."
Thorn?
The moment the name echoed in my mind, the face I had tried so hard to forget surfaced with painful clarity. His rebellious eyes, that confident smile as he leaned against his F1 car, the wind tangling his hair after he removed his helmet—yet the way he looked at me was always tender, always full.
That was a happiness I could never erase. And a love I would never touch again.
Six years ago, I shattered my own heart and walked away from the man who once loved me more than life.
I knew he would never forgive me.
I knew our paths would never cross again.
So this had to be a dream.
It could only be a dream.
"Oh, baby..." That voice again, low and rough against my ear. Then, soft lips brushed mine—too gentle, too knowing. "You don't get to cry now."
My lashes fluttered, struggling to focus, but my world stayed blurred, liquid with tears and desire.
A soft moan escaped me as his fingers curled around my throat—not tight, but possessive. A claim.
His touch sent shivers racing down my spine. My breath hitched, thoughts scattering until only sensation remained. That familiar, devastating sensation.
Heat sparked where his skin met mine, spreading like wildfire through my veins. My body remembered him, arching instinctively toward him before my mind could protest.
My hands lifted, trembling, to his shoulders. My lips parted, meeting his kiss with a hunger I hadn't allowed myself to feel in years. God, he felt so warm. So real—as if I'd been pulled back through time, to those nights before fate tore us apart.
The man above me stilled for a heartbeat, then let out a low, dark chuckle. "I knew you wouldn't dare forget."
Something shifted in his touch—what was restrained turned demanding, deliberate. His hands moved with purpose now, rough and punishing but careful not to break me. When his mouth found my throat, kissing and sucking until my head fell back, my toes curled into the sheets.
Then his fingers slipped beneath the last barrier between us, parting me slowly before sliding deep. I gasped, back bowing off the bed as pleasure burned through every nerve.
"Remember, Rosie," he breathed against my lips, his fingers moving inside me with ruthless precision. I shook, clinging to him, unable to let go. "If you ever forget again...I'll make you regret it."
When he finally pushed into me, filling me completely, a broken cry tore from my throat, reaching the deepest part of my soul.
***
My gaze fixed on the pale ceiling. The room was warm yet hollow, tastefully furnished and utterly still.
I lay alone in the wide bed. The morning sun streamed through the curtains, its warmth spilling across my skin—yet it couldn't reach the sudden chill that had settled deep inside me.
This wasn't my room.
A sharp inhale caught in my throat. I tried to push myself up, only to sink back with a soft groan. Every muscle ached. Swallowing hard, the fog of sleep began to clear, and with it came the crashing realization: last night was not a dream.
I'd slept with someone.
But who?
Him...?
A bitter laugh escaped me. I shook my head, dismissing the absurd thought. After everything that happened six years ago, there was no way our paths would cross again.
*"You're not worthy of my son."*
Her voice—haughty, ice-cold—still lived in my memory. His mother had looked down at me as if I were something she'd scraped off her shoe.
*"If it weren't for you, he would never have had to suffer through any of this."*
*"Take the money,"* she'd said, tossing a bank card toward me. The edge of it caught my cheek, leaving a stinging line. *"And disappear from his life. Permanently."*
I closed my eyes, fingers digging into the sheets beneath me, as if I could press the memories back down where they belonged.
*Stop it, Rosie. You and he were never from the same world. What you had was already more than you deserved.*
*Without you, he was doing just fine.*
The memory of last month's financial newspaper flashed before me—the engagement announcement printed boldly on the front page. His fiancée smiled beside him, elegant and appropriate. At that moment, I felt my heart crack all over again.
*Let it go, Rosie. You were not alone anymore.*
At the thought of Thraia, a sudden urgency tightened my chest. She must be so worried—I'd never stayed out all night before.
Ignoring the soreness, I slid out of bed. It took longer than it should have to dress. My panties were nowhere to be found, but I didn't have time to search. My bag lay on the floor nearby. I reached inside, only to pull out my broken glasses.
"Jesus!" I groaned. "I need to get another one. That's just another expense."
My name was Rosella Summers. Twenty-six, with a decent day job that paid well—on paper, at least. But I had a daughter to care for. Thraia was special, and she needed more than just the basics. So I worked nights, too.
Last night, I was on a "designated driver" shift—ferrying wealthy clients from high-end clubs back to their hotels or penthouses. Something went wrong.
I never drank. I was a lightweight, and I knew it. But last night... I must have had something.
Somehow, some way, I ended up in bed with my client. The only small mercy was that he was already gone. I lifted my head, scanning the room once more.
The suite around me was understated luxury—clean lines, muted tones, the kind of quiet that only money could buy. Whoever he was, he had wealth and taste. I could only hope he wasn't the messy, complicated type.
Don't get me wrong—I was not looking for a rich fling.
I was a woman fighting to make ends meet. Time was a luxury I didn't have, and I had no patience for games. I had a degree, a real job—I hadn't fallen so low that I'd sell myself for a quick fix. Taking that money six years ago was humiliating enough, even if I had no choice at the time.
I wouldn't give anyone the chance to walk over me again.
Bag in hand, I walked out without looking back.
***
Inside the Uber, I opened the ride-share app and refunded the fare from last night. Clients at his level wouldn't miss the money, but I'd never liked feeling like I owed anyone anything. Thanks to years of solid ratings, the refund went through instantly. Then, without hesitation, I blocked his profile.
The system would never match us again.
We could disappear from each other's lives. No one had to remember. Perfect.
I tried to smile at my faint reflection in the window, but it came out strained and tired.
It had been so long since I'd dreamed of him—not because I didn't want to, but because I didn't dare. And now, after one reckless night, I'd given myself to a stranger over a foolish dream. A dull, quiet ache spread through me.
There had never been anyone else. Not in that way.
Tears threatened, but I brushed them away before they could fall.
"No regrets, Rosie," I whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the engine. "You know that leaving was the only choice."
I made myself smile again, fingers tracing the small, hand-painted ceramic heart dangling from my phone—glazed in soft pink, with a tiny golden star painted in the center. Thraia had picked it out for me last Christmas.
"With this, Rosie will be under Santa's protection," she'd declared, so serious and bright. "You'll be the happiest woman ever."
Her voice echoed in my mind, steadying me, pulling me back into the present.
Yes. Life went on. I didn't need to dwell on the past—or on reckless mistakes. My happiness was waiting for me at home, in our small apartment, in the little girl who called me 'Mommy'.
As the car pulled away, I didn't notice the pair of furious, familiar eyes watching my direction from the rearview mirror.
My past wasn't done with me yet.
