Chapter 2: Unexpected Morning
1645words
I look around groggily at this strange place as memories from the previous night come flooding back.
Yesterday was the Fashion Week celebration party, and I had accidentally drunk a few too many glasses.
And then...
My hands begin to tremble as my mind suddenly clears.
His heavy groans still echo in my ears like a death knell. I remember every word he whispered in my ear, how his hands roamed over my body, how his strength made me feel both safe and excited. Those images are too vivid, making my cheeks instantly flush.
I cut off my mental replay, wanting only to escape this place of indiscretion as quickly as possible.
I pick up the torn white dress from the floor.
Could I even wear this out?...
My trembling hands toss the clothing aside.
By the bed is a set of clean clothes, obviously left by him—a professional skirt suit.
I hurriedly put it on. The clothes aren't my usual style, probably just something bought to serve the purpose.
I notice that my neck is completely clean, but below my collarbone is a complete mess.
Hmph! Should I praise this man for being a gentleman?
So afraid of anyone knowing he slept with someone!
I sigh and head to the bathroom, wanting to wash away the lingering scent on my body. The bathroom is spacious and luxurious, with various high-end skincare products arranged on the marble countertop and shower doors so transparent they're almost invisible. I quickly shower, trying not to look at my reflection in the mirror—a body covered in love marks.
Coming out of the bathroom, I survey the room. This bedroom is larger than my entire apartment, decorated in a simple yet elegant style, with dark furniture contrasting against light walls. There are no unnecessary decorations, no personal photos, not even a book. The place looks more like a high-end hotel suite than someone's home.
I grab my purse from the bedside table, take a deep breath, and walk toward the door. I need to leave this place as soon as possible and pretend last night never happened.
Opening the door, I'm greeted by an enormous living room. Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the entire space. The living room's decor matches the bedroom's style—simple and high-end, but equally lacking in personal touches.
A familiar figure sits on the sofa with his back to me, working on a laptop. He wears black loungewear, his hair slightly disheveled, looking completely different from the impeccable "celibate CEO" seen at the office.
Hearing the door open, he turns his head, those gray-blue eyes looking directly at me. My heart immediately races as fragments of last night's memories suddenly become clearer.
"Good morning, Miss Levinsky," Ethan Westwood's voice remains calm, as if last night's passion had never happened.
"Good morning, Mr. Westwood," I try to maintain my composure, but my voice still trembles slightly.
I notice he's wearing headphones, with a video conference displayed on his laptop screen. He says "just a moment" to the screen, then removes his headphones and stands up.
"I'm in a meeting," he explains briefly, gesturing for me to stay quiet.
I quickly close my mouth, understanding what he means.
"Come, have breakfast," he points to the dining table, where two elegant breakfast plates and a glass of honey water are set.
I hesitate but eventually walk over. I need food and water to alleviate my hangover headache.
After sitting down, I notice several distinct red marks on his neck. Oh my god, did I leave those? My cheeks burn as I quickly lower my head and take a sip of honey water.
He returns to his computer, puts his headphones back on, and continues his meeting. I can see him leaning forward slightly, pushing a glass of water toward me, but this motion positions his neck marks directly in front of the camera. I tense up, my face turning crimson—those marks must be clearly visible to everyone in the meeting.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know it was your first time. I was a bit rough," he suddenly says during a break in the meeting, his tone as casual as if discussing the weather.
"Ahem..." I nearly choke on my water, the blush on my face intensifying.
What's done is done, let's not reminisce anymore, okay?
"The family doctor will be here soon. Wait before you leave," he continues, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Family doctor? What for? To check if I'm pregnant? I feel a wave of panic but don't dare ask directly.
"Mr. Westwood, I can go home by myself, no need to trouble you," I try to stay calm, but my voice is noticeably tense.
"Are you saying I didn't perform well last night?" he raises an eyebrow slightly, his eyes flashing with an emotion I can't interpret.
"Huh?!"
For some reason, my heart starts racing wildly.
How would I dare say that!
I'm at a loss for words, not knowing how to counter his statement.
This is the first time I've ever been verbally outmaneuvered like this.
If he weren't my boss, I would have already lost my temper and torn into him.
"Mr. Westwood, Dr. South has arrived," an older woman appears at the door, breaking the awkward atmosphere.
He says nothing, just silently looks at me.
I feel uncomfortable under his gaze, my already flushed cheeks growing even hotter.
"Follow me," Ethan finally speaks, letting out an almost imperceptible sigh.
I obediently follow—who am I to defy the fashion industry's powerhouse?
Back at the scene of last night's passion, my heart races anxiously as I stare at the bed.
However, the "battlefield" has already been meticulously cleaned by the maid.
An elegant female doctor enters, and Ethan walks out, closing the door behind him.
I thought she might give me emergency contraception or some kind of injection, but no.
She's there to examine and apply medication to... that area...
How humiliating! To have someone else inspect the aftermath of last night.
At least the ointment does provide significant relief.
I cover my face the entire time, feeling utterly embarrassed.
When I come out, Ethan is gone.
Waiting for me is a young Asian man, dressed in an impeccable suit with black-rimmed glasses, giving the impression of someone intelligent and capable.
"Miss Levinsky," he nods politely, "I'm Noah King, Mr. Westwood's personal assistant. I'll be taking you home."
"Thank you," I respond awkwardly, following him toward the elevator.
As the elevator descends, I can't help but ask, "Did I get into the wrong car last night?"
"Yes, future Mrs. Westwood," Noah teases, with a slight smile playing at his lips, hesitating as if wanting to say more. "I've seen you around the company a few times, but this is the first time I've seen you in this... state..."
"..." I ask with extreme embarrassment. "So what did I do?"
He seems to enjoy my discomfort a bit, then begins to describe the scene vividly:
"You had quite a bit to drink," Noah says diplomatically, "and were rather... enthusiastic after getting in the car."
"Mr. Westwood had also had a few drinks last night, but he was afraid to move—you know, he has mysophobia. You even tore his shirt, popping off several buttons."
"You were like a human accessory hanging onto a disheveled Mr. Westwood, hugging and kissing him non-stop, impossible to shake off! He originally wanted to take you home, but seeing your condition, he was worried you might be in danger alone, so he decided to bring you to his apartment."
"..." I listen while mentally reconstructing the scene. "Oh my God..."
"So, you and Mr. Westwood..." Noah hesitates, his eyes carrying a hint of inquiry.
I have to say, Ethan was quite foresighted—he made sure not to leave any marks on my neck.
"As you can see," I point to my clean neck.
"Looks like Mr. Westwood is quite the gentleman after all."
"Yes—" I drag out the word.
Gentleman, hypocrite—
Noah drives me back to the Westwood Tower. I look at him in surprise, "I thought you were taking me home."
"Mr. Westwood said you could take the day off, but the design department just announced an emergency meeting that everyone must attend," Noah explains. "I thought you might need to attend the meeting first."
I sigh, looking down at the skirt suit I'm wearing. It isn't my usual style, but at least it's better than a torn dress.
"Thank you, Noah," I say, then walk toward the elevator.
The elevator doors open, and I step in, pressing the button for the 28th floor. Just as the doors are about to close, a hand reaches in, preventing them from shutting.
"Alia!" a familiar female voice calls out, and my heart immediately sinks.
Olivia Blake, my former best friend and now my ex-boyfriend's new flame, steps into the elevator. She's dressed in expensive designer clothes, her makeup flawless, looking absolutely radiant.
"Hi, Olivia," I respond coldly, fixing my gaze on the elevator buttons.
"Alia, don't you hate wearing business attire? What made you decide to wear a skirt suit today?!" Olivia looks me up and down, her tone slightly mocking.
Indeed, I don't like business suits because of my full figure—wearing them makes me look like a model from certain websites...
I pretend to be composed, tugging at my clothes.
"To highlight my 'outstanding' work, I need to put my real assets on display," I reply sarcastically.
"Hehe..." Olivia glances at my front, then slaps my backside hard: "Any man who marries you would be incredibly lucky!"
Ouch—
That hurt, sister!
I bite my lip and say nothing.
Just as the elevator doors are about to close, a hand appears in the gap, preventing them from shutting.
