Chapter 1: Drunken Night
1015words
I stand on the balcony of the New York Fashion Week celebration party, my champagne glass empty for the third time. The breeze caresses my cheeks, carrying away a tear that accidentally slipped down. I, Alia Levinsky, should have been the brightest star tonight. My design won the Emerging Designer Award, a significant milestone in my career.
But at this moment, I only feel a bone-chilling cold.
“Another glass?” A waiter offers me a golden liquid, which I accept without hesitation.
“Thank you, this will be my last,” I smile, knowing it’s a lie.
Thirty minutes ago, while looking for my boyfriend Jackson, I inadvertently pushed open a door I shouldn’t have. It was a secluded storage room, and in the dim light, I saw my boyfriend of five years, Jackson, entangled with my best friend Olivia. His hand was exploring under her dress, her red lips pressed against his neck, both lost in passion, not even noticing the sound of the door opening.
I didn’t scream, didn’t rush in to confront them, just quietly closed the door as if I hadn’t seen anything. Five years of love, collapsed in an instant.
“To my stupidity,” I toast to the stars and drain my glass.
The alcohol begins to take effect; my vision blurs, and my thoughts become increasingly chaotic. I know I should go home, but my legs won’t obey. I stagger toward the exit, trying to hail a taxi.
Rain suddenly starts falling, and I stand at the hotel entrance, my hair sticking to my face, dampened by the rain. I see a black luxury car parked nearby, its door slightly ajar, the driver seemingly waiting for someone. In my drunken state, I walk over and, without thinking, open the back door and climb in.
“Thanks for waiting, let’s go,” I mumble, resting my head on the soft leather seat and closing my eyes.
The car is completely silent.
“You’ve got the wrong car.” A deep, calm male voice comes from beside me.
I snap my eyes open and turn toward the source of the voice. In the dim car light, I see a man sitting next to me, his features sharp, gray-blue eyes glinting coldly in the darkness.
“Ethan Westwood?” I exclaim in surprise, recognizing the CEO of the Westwood fashion empire, my boss.
“Miss Levinsky.” He nods, his voice still calm. “I think you should get out.”
But my alcohol-addled brain clearly isn’t working properly. Instead of getting out, I start laughing.
“Mr. Westwood, did you know? I won an award today,” I giggle. “That Emerging Designer Award your company sponsored.”
He doesn't respond, just signals the driver to start driving. The car slowly pulls away from the hotel, rain forming blurry patterns on the windows. My consciousness grows increasingly foggy, and without realizing it, my head rests on his shoulder. Then, like a small cat, I nuzzle closer to him. My hair slips aside, revealing the snow-white skin of my neck and a glimpse of my collarbone, gleaming like moonlight in the dim car interior, pure yet alluring.
“You smell so good,” I murmur. “Like cedar and mint.”
“Miss Levinsky, you’re drunk,” his voice remains calm, but I notice his eyes have grown deeper.
“Call me Alia,” I say, my hand unconsciously moving to his thigh, and I lean even closer to him, now close enough to feel each other’s breath. “And I’m not that drunk.”
I feel his muscles instantly tense, but he merely gently grasps my wrist and removes my hand.
This is a lie; I am very drunk, but at this moment, I just want to escape reality, to forget the man who betrayed me and the friend who betrayed me.
I stare directly into his gray-blue eyes for a long while. I don’t know what drives me to do this—perhaps the alcohol, perhaps the heartbreak, perhaps the powerful aura emanating from the man before me. I suddenly lean in and kiss his lips.
His body instantly tenses, completely still. I think he’s going to push me away, but unexpectedly, after a few seconds, he begins to return my kiss. At first, it’s restrained and gentle, but quickly becomes passionate and urgent.
“Are you sure you want to continue?” His voice is deep and hoarse, his Adam’s apple visibly bobbing, his gray-blue eyes as deep as the sea.
“I’m sure,” I say, my fingers already starting to undo his tie. “Tonight, I don’t want to think, don’t want to remember, I just want to feel.”
He looks at me deeply, as if confirming my level of sobriety, then says something to the driver. The car quickly changes direction, heading to another destination.
“You’ll regret this,” he says softly, but his hands have already encircled my waist, pulling me closer.
“Then we’ll deal with that tomorrow,” I reply, kissing his lips again.
The car stops, and he carries me out, through the luxurious lobby of an apartment building, and into an elevator. I remember the moment the elevator doors closed, he pinned me against the wall, kissing me until I could barely breathe. I remember his fingers igniting flames on my skin, his lips leaving burning marks on my flesh.
When the elevator reaches the penthouse, he almost stumbles as he brings me into the apartment. In the spacious living room bathed in moonlight, his eyes grow even deeper, like a bottomless ocean.
“Last chance,” his voice is hoarse, with a hint of vulnerability I’ve never heard before. “Are you sure?”
I don’t answer, just kiss his lips again, my arms encircling his neck. This action seems to completely demolish his final defenses. He lifts me in one motion and strides toward the bedroom.
What happens next exists only in fragmented memories. I remember his touch burning like fire, his whispers thundering like a storm, remember that moment when I finally forgot all the pain and betrayal. But ultimately, alcohol and exhaustion defeat me, and I drift into a deep sleep amid the chaos.
