One Wrong Night with the Ice God

SHEILA POV:

A burning sensation pulled me from a hazy, feverish dream. My head throbbed.

I smelled a strange cologne, a mix of alcohol and musk that didn't belong to my ex-boyfriend, Nolan.

The ceiling was unfamiliar. A massive crystal chandelier stabbed my eyes with harsh light. This wasn't my room.

I looked down and a choked gasp escaped me - I was completely naked.

My clothes, the dress I'd worn last night, lay crumpled on the floor next to a stranger's suit.

My head snapped to the other side of the bed. A man's steady breathing filled the silence. His back was to me, broad and solid, his muscles sculpted like a star athlete's.

A sliver of sunlight cut through the curtains, catching the gold in his hair. My heart hammered against my ribs. Who was he?

Fragments of last night flooded my mind. My stepsister Rita, handing me a glass of champagne. I saw my beloved Nolan on the dance floor... I wanted to catch up to him... and then what?

In the fog of memory, I seemed to recall grabbing Nolan's arm, crying in his arms, him leading me back to a room... I had mistaken this man for Nolan.

My hand trembled as I reached out, needing to touch that figure.

Just as my fingertips were about to make contact, the man rolled over, facing me.

I stopped breathing. The face was beautiful, like a Renaissance sculpture - but completely, utterly strange. Deep-set eyes, a straight nose, a firm, sculpted mouth.

Definitely not Nolan. My mind went blank. The man I had mistaken, the man I had... he was a total stranger.

Shame and fear crashed over me like a tidal wave. An uncontrollable scream tore from my throat.

The man's brow furrowed at the sound. He slowly opened his eyes.

They were a startling ice-blue, as cold and remote as a polar glacier, now clouded with the haze of sleep.

He looked at me, the confusion fading fast, replaced by a flicker of annoyance and something that looked like mockery.

"What's with the screaming?" His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, thick with the laziness of a hangover. "You weren't this shy last night when you were climbing me like a wildcat."

His words hit me like a slap. Heat flooded my face.

I snatched the comforter, pulling it tight against my chest, my body shaking with a mixture of rage and humiliation.

He propped himself up on one elbow, the sheet sliding down to reveal a chest and abdomen etched with lean muscle. Faint, angry scratches marred the skin.

The marks seared my eyes. My handiwork, no doubt.

"I... how did I get here?" I asked, my voice a pathetic tremble.

He raised an eyebrow, a sarcastic curve to his lips. "You're asking me? Who was it in the elevator, throwing herself into my arms and crying 'don't go'?"

"I... I didn't!" I blurted out, even though my memory was a chaotic blur.

A short, dismissive laugh escaped him. "Oh? Should I help you remember? You even tried to take my clothes off."

His words choked me. I was speechless, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

The humiliation peaked. I swung my arm, mustering all my strength to slap his handsome, hateful face.

"You bastard!" My shout came with the swing.

His eyes turned cold, but he didn't flinch, as if he was waiting for the impact.

My hand froze in mid-air. I suddenly realized I didn't even know this bastard's name, and my life as I knew it was already ruined by him.

SHEILA POV:

His hand shot out, catching my wrist in a grip like a steel clamp. I couldn't move.

"Trying to hit me?" His ice-blue eyes held no warmth, only a detached, playful curiosity. "With that little strength? Didn't you eat?"

I struggled to pull my hand back, but he was immovable. The motion only brought us closer.

I could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the long sweep of his lashes. His breath, smelling of mint toothpaste, ghosted across my face.

The intimacy of it was another layer of humiliation. I turned my head away, refusing to look at him.

As I thrashed, the comforter I was clutching slipped. It fell away with a soft whoosh, leaving me completely exposed to his gaze once more.

A small gasp escaped me. My other hand flew to grab the fabric, my face burning so hot I thought it might combust.

He seemed to freeze for a second, his eyes raking over me. The look was direct, invasive, like I was a piece of property being appraised.

Then he released my wrist and leaned back against the headboard, an amused spectator at my one-woman disaster.

I scrambled to wrap myself in the comforter again, bundling it around me like a mummy, and retreated to the far corner of the bed, a cornered animal.

"Forget everything that happened last night," I bit out, the words tasting like acid. "Nothing happened between us."

I didn't dare look at him. My eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for my dress.

I scrambled off the bed, snatched the crumpled fabric from the floor, and turned my back to him, fumbling to put it on as fast as I could.

The zipper was in the back. I clawed at it, my fingers clumsy and useless. I was close to tears.

A rustling sound came from behind me. He was getting out of bed.

My entire body went rigid. I could feel him approaching, each footstep a hammer blow against my heart.

A pair of warm, large hands landed on my back. He gently pulled the zipper up.

His fingertips brushed against my skin, sending an unwanted shiver through me.

"All zipped up," he murmured, his voice low in my ear. "Can we talk now?"

I spun around, putting distance between us, my eyes narrowed in suspicion. "I have nothing to talk to you about."

He had pulled on his pants, his upper body still bare, a distracting display of sculpted muscle. He took a cigarette from a pack in his suit pocket, lighting it but not smoking, just holding it between his fingers.

"Is that so?" He blew out a stream of white smoke. "A girl spends the night in a hotel with a strange man. You think there's nothing to talk about?"

"What do you want? Money?" I sneered. It was the only explanation that made sense.

His eyes, which had been lazily amused, turned instantly cold. "What did you say?"

He stalked toward me, the sheer force of his presence backing me up until my back hit the cold, unyielding wall.

He leaned in, planting his hands on either side of my head, trapping me between his arms and the wall.

"Look at me," he commanded. "And say it again."

I met his gaze defiantly, but I saw a flicker of real, insulted anger in their depths.

Just when I thought he would explode, he suddenly smiled, a chilling expression that didn't reach his eyes.

"Since you think we need a solution," he said, his gaze locked on mine, enunciating every word. "Then let's get married."

I stared at him, certain I had misheard. "What... what did you say?"

"I said, I'll marry you. Take responsibility." He repeated it, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather.

Absurd. The sheer absurdity of it all crashed over me. I started to laugh, a hysterical, broken sound that brought tears to my eyes.

"Responsibility? Who do you think you are? You think a ring is going to fix this?" I shot back, my voice sharp with scorn. "You're just trying to find another way to take advantage of me!"

He watched my hysterical display, his expression becoming unreadable, and he didn't deny my accusation. It only confirmed my deepest fear: this man, from head to toe, was a massive conspiracy.

SHEILA POV:

He didn't press closer. Instead, he straightened up, pulling a black card from his wallet in a smooth, practiced motion.

He tucked it into the strap of my dress. The cold, sharp edge of the card against my skin made me flinch.

His fingers brushed my collarbone, a deliberate, lingering touch. His eyes were full of a meaning I didn't want to understand. "When you figure it out, call this number."

With that, he turned, grabbed his suit jacket from the floor, and walked out of the room without a backward glance.

The click of the closing door echoed in the sudden, deafening silence, leaving only the frantic drumming of my own heart.

I slid down the wall, my strength gone, and hugged my knees. My body was still trembling.

I pulled out the card. It was pure black, with a single name, "Shane Montgomery," and a phone number embossed in gold foil.

I ran into the bathroom and turned the shower on, letting the scalding water beat down on me. I scrubbed my skin over and over until it was red and raw, as if I could wash away the memory of his touch, of the entire night.

In the mirror, I saw the dark, ugly bruises on my neck and collarbone. The tears I'd been holding back finally broke free.

I sank to the tiled floor and sobbed, for my lost innocence, for my trampled dignity.

As I cried, a memory flashed in my mind: last night, just before I lost consciousness, the strange, triumphant smile on my stepsister Rita Kowalski's face as she handed me that glass of champagne.

A jolt went through me, sharp and clarifying. The drink! The problem was in the drink!

I remembered the sudden, intense heat that had spread through my body after I drank it, the dizzying loss of control.

I was drugged. Rita drugged me.

Rage and hatred erupted like a volcano. It was her again! Six months ago, she was the one who took advantage of Nolan Sullivan's car accident and his resulting amnesia, lying and claiming to be his girlfriend, stealing him from me.

I had thought it was just a tragic accident, that Nolan had simply forgotten me. Now, I saw it all. It was all part of Rita's meticulous plan.

Stealing my love wasn't enough. Now she had to resort to this disgusting method to ruin my reputation completely.

I shot to my feet, turning off the water. I dried myself with a towel, my eyes turning cold and hard.

I couldn't be weak anymore. I wouldn't let her win.

I dressed, then picked up my clutch from the floor, checking its contents. Phone, wallet... everything was there.

My eyes fell on the black card I had thrown away.

I hesitated for a moment, then walked over and bent down to pick it up.

I didn't know how this man, Shane, fit into Rita's scheme, but he had to be a part of it.

I had to figure this out.

I composed myself, applying makeup with a steady hand, covering the exhaustion on my face and the marks on my neck.

The girl in the mirror was no longer frightened and helpless. Her eyes were filled with the fire of revenge.

I walked out of the hotel room. The sunlight was blinding. I squinted, adjusting.

I pulled out my phone. A dozen missed calls from my father.

I took a deep breath, ignored them, and called an Uber.

Sheila Hayes, you can't be a sacrificial lamb anymore. From this day on, you will make everyone who hurt you pay.

The car headed toward the familiar Hayes residence, but I knew what awaited me wasn't a safe harbor. It was a cage of predators. And I had to find a weapon before I was devoured.