The Billionaire's Forgotten Night

"Ahh, ouch..." Annabelle moaned in pain the moment her lashes fluttered open. A dull ache radiated through her entire body, as if she had been thrown into a tornado and spit back out. Her limbs felt heavy, sore, and bruised-especially between her thighs.

Her vision cleared slowly as she opened her mesmerizing sea-green eyes wider and stared at the elegant, elaborately carved ceiling above her. Gilded detailing and an ornate chandelier screamed luxury-a sharp contrast to her tiny, humble room back home with water stains painting its ceiling like scars of poverty.

Where am I? Her brows furrowed.

A sense of unease crept over her. She pushed herself up slightly on the soft mattress, eyes scanning her surroundings. Plush velvet drapes, sleek wooden furnishings, and a spacious layout with gold-accented décor-this was not just any room.

Definitely not home...

Confused, she swung her gaze toward a glass table beside the bed, where a card caught her eye. She reached out and snatched it with trembling fingers. The bold, embossed letters read: Shelton Grand - Presidential Suite.

"Shelton Grand?" she murmured, stunned.

Memories from the previous night came crashing in like shattered glass-the graduation party of Abigail Hamilton, her half-sister, she was enjoying with Brian, her boyfriend... the music... the laughter... drinks... lights... but beyond that? Nothing. Just a void.

How the hell did I end up here? Her breath hitched.

Fearless and bold Annabelle-who was rarely scared of anything-felt a tremor of fear settle in her bones. Her heartbeat quickened. She sat up swiftly, and as she did, the quilt slipped down from her torso, revealing her bare skin.

What?!

Annabelle was shocked to the core to discover she was completely naked.

Her bare skin tingled against the cool air, and her breath caught in her throat. No clothes, no memories. Only confusion. She moved to sit up, and a sharp, stabbing pain shot through her core. Her eyes dropped to the white sheets, now stained with a deep crimson spot.

No...

The room spun. Her hand clutched the sheet as if it could anchor her from falling into the abyss of realization.

I lost my virginity last night...

To someone... unknown.

Guilt struck her hard, and her eyes welled with tears.

She swallowed a lump in her throat and tried to calm herself. Focus. Focus.

Annabelle scanned the room again, heaving a sigh of relief when she found herself alone. But then-

The sound of water came from behind the closed bathroom door.

Her breath caught. Her bed partner from last night... was in the shower.

Who is he? How did this happen?

So many questions buzzed in Annabelle's head, but not a single answer came to her. One thing was clear-whatever happened last night, she couldn't allow herself to be dragged into more trouble.

She needed to leave. Now.

She spotted her red silk dress from lying on the floor, along with her simple undergarments. Her thoughts turned to Brian-her childhood sweetheart, last month he proposed her and both decided to get married soon. Kind, loving Brian who had carefully selected the red silk dress she'd worn to the party. The same dress now lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, a silent witness to her shattered innocence.

Tears welled up in her eyes. "I... I cheated on him," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

She swallowed hard, trying to regain control. No more tears. No more weakness. She couldn't afford to be caught here-not like this. Whoever she had spent the night with, she had to get away before he showed up.

She reached for her dress, trembling fingers fumbling with the zipper as she quickly pulled it over her curves. She retrieved her undergarments and heels with desperate haste, all the while glancing nervously toward the closed bathroom door where the sound of a running shower abruptly stopped.

'Oh no...'

The sudden silence pierced through her like a blade.

Her hand froze mid-zip.

"I'm sorry, Brian..." she whispered tearfully as the last of the dress hugged her body. Her knees nearly buckled from the weight of guilt.

A soft noise snapped her back to the present. The water had stopped.

Annabelle wiped her tears and focused. This wasn't the time to drown in guilt. She had to leave before facing whoever was inside that bathroom.

She moved quickly, sliding her slender white legs into her heels, grabbing her white clutch from the center table, and heading for the door.

But just as her hand turned the knob-

"Hey, wait..."

A deep masculine voice echoed behind her, one laced with dominance and command.

She froze.

Her back still facing him, Annabelle's heartbeat thudded in her ears as she heard slow, heavy footsteps approaching her.

"Turn..."

Another commanding order made her fist on the door tighten.

Her body stiffened, but with a pounding heart, she slowly turned around. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a tall, muscular figure. Bulging biceps with a tattoo, eight-pack abs, and a pristine white towel wrapped around his lower half. One hand rested casually on his waistline. His aura radiated power and control.

She wanted to raise her head, to see his face, but her courage faltered. Her eyelashes remained lowered, and her chin felt glued to her neck.

The man couldn't see her face either-it was partly hidden by her long brown hair.

"Come here..."

She hadn't even fully turned when the third order struck her ears. Her legs felt paralyzed.

He wanted her to come to him. After what happened last night... what more did he want?

Fear, confusion, and shame swirled inside her-but then, from that storm, courage bloomed. That fearless Annabelle-the one known for her boldness-rose again.

No. Whatever happened last night cannot be undone. But I won't get involved with this man. He sounds rude. Controlling.

She didn't need to see his face to feel his terrifying aura.

Without hesitation, Annabelle spun around, yanked the doorknob, flung open the door, and ran out of the suite as fast as her legs could carry her. She didn't look back. Didn't want to.

She was sure the man-wealthy enough to live in a presidential suite-wouldn't chase after a girl he'd already spent a night with, especially not while wearing nothing but a towel.

What Annabelle didn't know was that the man wasn't just a CEO.

He was the owner of Hotel Shelton Grand.

And more than capable of tracking her down in seconds.

Inside the suite, the man's frown deepened when Annabelle not only disobeyed him but also dared to flee without so much as looking him in the eye. No one had ever defied him like this.

But soon, his frown melted into a dark, crooked smirk. His sculpted lips curled as he picked up his phone.

Meanwhile, Annabelle felt his piercing gaze following her even as she ran. She didn't wait for the elevator-just dashed straight for the stairs.

Anxious and breathless, she didn't realize she was running in the wrong direction. Instead of heading toward the exit, she found herself trapped in a maze of endless hallways.

Still, after a frantic struggle, she managed to find a door. It turned out to be a back exit.

Back door or front door-who cares?

She bolted out onto the road, hailed the first cab she saw, and finally breathed in relief once the hotel began fading from view.

Covering her face with trembling hands, she cried uncontrollably.

"I'm sorry, Brian. I cheated on you... Even if unknowingly, I still did. I'm not pure anymore. I'm sorry, Brian... I'm sorry..."

Guilt drowned her heart. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she continued sobbing throughout the ride home, her heart heavy with remorse.

Back at Hotel Shelton Grand

"Boss, that girl ran out the back door," a subordinate reported breathlessly, stepping into the luxurious suite. His boots clicked against the marble floor as he halted near the threshold, not daring to come any closer.

Inside, the room exuded quiet opulence-velvet drapes, golden accents, and the faint scent of imported cologne lingering in the air. The man standing by the floor-length mirror didn't turn. He was calmly adjusting the cufflinks of his tailored black suit, each movement precise, calculated. The diamonds on his cufflinks sparkled ominously under the crystal chandelier.

The news didn't faze him. Not even a flicker of emotion crossed his face.

"Find her."

His voice was low and detached-ice-cold, with an undertone of quiet menace. A voice that didn't need to shout to be obeyed. That simple command sent a chill through the subordinate's spine.

"Yes, my lord."

The man bowed deeply, his tone filled with respect-and fear. He knew the consequences of failure. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left swiftly, already barking orders into his earpiece.

The commanding figure in the room remained still, his gaze now fixed on his own reflection. His face, all sharp angles and carved perfection, was unreadable. But his eyes-those dark, magnetic eyes-held a flicker of something dangerous.

Amusement.

His lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.

"You can't escape from me, little bird," he murmured under his breath, voice like silk wrapping around a blade. "You can try to run... but you'll always be mine."

Then he slid on his black gloves, slow and deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world

His smile was wicked. The hunt had begun.

Three Years Later

On a pitch-black night, thunder rolled across the New York City skyline, accompanied by streaks of silver lightning tearing through the gloomy clouds. Rain poured heavily, soaking the nearly deserted streets. Annabelle, with one hand gripping her worn umbrella and the other clutching her faded handbag, hurried through the storm. The moon peeked now and then through the dense clouds, providing the dimmest glow to guide her path. Streetlights flickered unreliably, casting eerie shadows that danced on the wet pavement.

She quickened her pace. Her shoes squished with each step on the waterlogged sidewalk. She was already late-so late that she had missed the last bus, leaving her with no choice but to walk home. Shivering and muttering prayers under her breath for courage and safety, she crossed an empty road, ignoring the red traffic light. The streets were deserted; there was no soul in sight, only the wrath of nature howling around her.

Suddenly, a flash of lightning lit up the street like daylight for a fleeting second, followed by a deafening thunderclap. Startled, Annabelle froze in the middle of the road, her heart skipping a beat. Before she could move, a luxury sports car came speeding toward her, its headlights slicing through the rain.

For a moment, everything slowed. She couldn't move-her limbs felt paralyzed. But the car's brakes screeched just in time, halting inches from her. The tires sent water and mud splashing all over her, knocking her backward into a puddle.

"Excuse me, are you blind?! Can't you watch it while crossing the road?!" The driver's angry voice tore through the storm.

Annabelle's face twisted with disbelief and anger. 'What the hell? How could he talk to me like this?'

She stood up, dripping in rain and mud, her umbrella lying broken beside her. "Don't call me blind when you can't even see the road while driving!" she retorted, equally furious. The cold had seeped into her bones, and now the humiliation completed her misery.

Kicking the tire of the car in frustration, she wiped her face with her already drenched handkerchief. "Just great," she muttered under her breath.

Inside the car, a man in a black suit gripped the steering wheel tightly, veins bulging on his hand as he suppressed his fury. No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not in years.

"How dare you talk to me like that? Do you even know who I am?" he growled, stepping out of the car slightly.

Annabelle, already walking away, didn't even glance back. "I'm not interested in knowing who you are. You're not the President of America, nor the Vice President. Just a spoiled brat, playing with daddy's money. Huh!" she spat with disgust and continued her march through the rain, her silhouette fading into the storm.

Richard Barton stood there, livid. His face turned crimson, and the fury in his eyes could melt steel. No one had dared speak to him like this-especially not a woman who had crossed him once before. If only she knew who he really was.

"She has no idea who she just messed with," he muttered, watching her disappear into the dark.

"Hey! You, wait...!" he called out authoritatively.

The moment those words hit her ears, Annabelle halted.

The tone. The voice. The words.

It was the same. The same voice that echoed in the luxurious suite of Hotel Shelton Grand three years ago. Her heartbeat quickened. Déjà vu engulfed her senses.

That day, she had desperately wanted to run away from that voice.

But today... she wanted to turn back.

With a cautious breath, she turned slowly, her wet hair sticking to her face. As she looked up, a strong gust of wind blew her umbrella away. The car's headlights illuminated her soaked figure, and she raised her hands to shield her eyes.

When she lowered them, her gaze met his.

He was standing next to the open door of his sports car, a devilish smirk tugging at his lips. For a moment, he watched her silently-then something flickered in his eyes. Recognition. Shock. Calculation.

Richard Barton didn't get out after all. His smirk faded into something unreadable. He took out his phone, made a call, and spoke only one line:

"She is in New York."

Then, without another glance, he drove away, leaving a stunned Annabelle behind.

Early Morning – Annabelle's Apartment

"Hey, Anna, wake up, or we'll be late!"

Annabelle groaned and opened her eyes to find Hazel, her roommate and best friend, standing by the bed in a vibrant outfit.

"You're ready already?" Annabelle asked, rubbing her eyes.

"I came back at dawn," Hazel replied with a yawn, carelessly tying her hair.

"You need to sort out your priorities. Seriously," Annabelle scolded lightly, reaching for her phone.

"My life is meant to be colorful and wild. Unlike you," Hazel shot back, rolling her eyes, "who's stuck in a grey bubble of the past."

Annabelle didn't answer. She opened her phone and stared at a single photograph-one she hadn't deleted, no matter how much she wanted to.

Hazel noticed. "For God's sake, Anna. Move on already."

"I have moved on," Annabelle murmured, locking her phone with a gloomy expression and walking toward the bathroom.

As the cold water poured down on her, memories she tried to bury resurfaced. That one night. That one mistake that changed her whole life.

Three years ago, she woke up in a stranger's bed. Hotel Shelton Grand. Her head spinning. Her body aching. The horrifying realization of what had happened to her tore through her like a storm. She didn't just lose her virginity. She lost her sense of safety, of trust, of love.

Her only love back then had been Brian Miller. She was ready to confess everything to him, hoping-foolishly-that he would understand. But Brian already knew. And the way he turned on her, the venom in his eyes, shattered her heart more than the betrayal itself.

Now, only bitterness remained and its all because of her.

"I've moved on," she whispered under the shower, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. "But I will never forget. Not him. Not Brian. One day, they'll both pay for ruining my life. I'll make sure of it... at the right time," she murmured through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with suppressed rage.

The icy water continued to pour over her, numbing her skin, but doing little to cool the fire raging inside her heart. Her teeth chattered as she stepped out of the shower, her body trembling slightly, lips tinged blue from the cold.

Hazel looked up from the dresser, frowning. "You took a cold shower again?" she asked, her tone a mix of worry and frustration.

"I'm fine. Let's eat," Annabelle replied stiffly, brushing her wet hair back and walking toward the mirror.

"You're way too harsh on yourself, Anna," Hazel muttered under her breath, grabbing the hair dryer. Without waiting for permission, she began drying Annabelle's hair-because she knew her best friend wouldn't bother doing it herself.

Annabelle didn't respond. Her eyes were blank, her expression unreadable. It was the same conversation they'd had countless times. Same words, same concern. And always the same outcome-nothing changed.

After breakfast, Annabelle quietly gathered her things and stepped out of the apartment, the early morning chill brushing against her skin as she headed to work.

Hazel, meanwhile, flopped back onto her bed with a sigh, her limbs heavy from another night spent clubbing with her new boyfriend. As she pulled the blanket over herself, she whispered to no one in particular, "She's going to burn herself out like this..."

But Annabelle was already gone, walking into the day like a storm cloud in disguise, carrying with her the weight of old wounds and a thirst for quiet revenge.

Elsewhere – A Grand Mansion

In the vast, high-ceilinged dining room of the Barton estate, golden chandeliers cast a cold, dignified glow over a long, polished oak table. At its head sat Richard Barton, his towering frame cloaked in a jet-black designer suit. His sharp jaw was tightly clenched, eyes fixed on the silent ticking of his limited edition Rolex. Every tick seemed to test his patience further.

A servant, standing by the corner with a silver tray, swallowed hard and dared to speak. "Boss... Mr. Duke will be here soon," he said in a hushed, trembling voice, the words barely above a whisper. His hope was simple-to ease the crackling tension that had turned the air heavy.

Richard didn't respond. Instead, he tapped his fingers on the mahogany table in a rhythmic, threatening beat. Then, in a sudden burst of fury, he slammed his clenched fist down onto the table. The resounding crack made the silverware jump and clatter, echoing ominously through the room. The servant visibly flinched and took a small step back.

At that precise moment, a carefree voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"Richard, relax. I'm here, dude."

Jordan Duke appeared in the doorway, casually dressed yet undeniably charismatic, his signature crooked smile firmly in place. His arrival felt like a breeze through a battlefield. The servants almost sighed in relief as the palpable anger in the room softened slightly-Jordan always had a way of balancing Richard's boiling temper.

"You're five minutes late," Richard stated coldly, his tone clipped and unforgiving.

"I was at your work site all night. At least appreciate that I came back at dawn," Jordan replied, unfazed, walking to the table like he owned the place. He grabbed a slice of toast and filled a crystal glass with orange juice, completely at ease.

Richard lifted his fork, but midway to his mouth, he froze. His fingers tightened around the handle as if reconsidering everything in that split second. Abruptly, he placed the fork back onto the plate and rose to his feet, his chair scraping sharply against the floor.

"Let's go," he said curtly, already striding away.

"What? I haven't even eaten yet!" Jordan blinked in disbelief as Richard gripped the back of his collar and yanked him up to his feet, forcing him to follow.

By the time they were inside the sleek black SUV, Jordan had had enough. "Richard, what the hell is going on with you? Why are you acting like this? What exactly are you planning?"

Richard didn't answer. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel, his jaw locked tight.

"Is it about that girl?" Jordan pressed, his voice more serious now. "Why are you so obsessed with her? Did she even do anything to you?"

Richard's head slowly turned toward him, eyes blazing with a darkness Jordan hadn't seen in a long time. His voice was dangerously low, every word soaked in cold determination.

"She has to be in my mansion," he said slowly, deliberately, "with me... as mine."

Annabelle stormed into Hotel Grand Hayat at her fastest pace, the familiar scent of brewed coffee and polished wood greeting her like a routine alarm. She'd been working here for the past two years, and yet today, everything felt upside down.

Slipping into her crisp uniform, she straightened the collar and marched toward the restaurant manager's cabin for an important meeting. The staff buzzed around like bees before a storm.

Word was out. Grand Hayat had been bought by one of the city's most powerful entrepreneurs. Today, the new boss was inspecting every corner of his kingdom, every employee on his payroll. He wasn't just meeting the staff-he was evaluating them. Coldly. Professionally. And if anyone didn't meet his gold-plated standards, they'd be booted. No second chances. No mercy.

The manager's voice was grim earlier that morning, "Impress the new boss-or you're out. Worse, if he blacklists you, you can kiss this entire industry goodbye."

Annabelle stood in the queue with the rest of the restaurant crew, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her sleeve. She was a senior waitress now-once a cleaner, promoted in record time thanks to her grit. But this wasn't her endgame. Not by a long shot.

She had bigger fish to fry.

After graduating in hotel management, she dreamed of becoming the head chef of a five-star kitchen. But life hadn't exactly played fair. Her plans for a master's degree got derailed, and she had to dive headfirst into work. Yet, she'd hustled her way up-hard work, long nights, no excuses.

She couldn't afford to lose this job now. Not when she'd come so far.

"Annabelle," the old restaurant manager called her softly. She turned to face him. His wrinkled face and kind eyes had been a rare comfort in the cutthroat world of hospitality.

"You're smart, hardworking, and talented. You've got a spark. I'm retiring soon, and if things go well... maybe you can fill my shoes. But you gotta nail this, alright? Impress him."

Touched, Annabelle nodded. "I'll give it everything I've got, sir."

Soon, they all lined up like soldiers. The hallway buzzed with tension. Then came the unmistakable sound of synchronized footfalls. Tap-tap-tap. A swarm of sleek suits and sunglasses swirled into view. The man leading them moved like a storm in a tailored suit-black as night, his Italian shoes gleaming under the lights.

Annabelle caught only a glimpse, but something about the way he walked-so confident, so commanding-made her pulse quicken.

Before she could take another breath, the manager barked, "New boss wants to see the restaurant team in his private cabin. Move it."

Back in the kitchen, Annabelle was already in her element, guiding her team. The soup was simmering, her dish was ready, and she was giving tips on plating when Nora ran over, slightly panicked.

"Bells, can you help me? I need you to deliver this Raspberry Bavarois with sorbet to Room 4306. I'm not done with the dessert for the exec lunch."

Annabelle frowned. Time was tight. She was supposed to serve the opening soup soon.

Nora gave her a pleading look. "C'mon. You'll make it back in 15. Promise."

Reluctantly, she agreed, grabbed the tray, and pushed the trolley out. The lift was crawling. One was out of service, and the other was packed to the brim with staff and chaos. Then she spotted a guy who had just accessed the presidential elevator. He walked away, distracted by a phone call, not even waiting for it to arrive.

Ding.

Perfect timing.

Annabelle slipped into the presidential elevator-and froze as though she'd walked into a lion's den.

Standing inside was a man who looked like he belonged on the cover of a luxury magazine. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dressed in black trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his forearms flexed as he scrolled through his phone. His dark hair was perfectly tousled, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and his entire presence screamed danger, power, and zero patience.

But it wasn't just his looks that made her breath catch-it was the energy he radiated. Cold. Controlled. Dominant.

He glanced up from his phone, clearly expecting someone else.

"Marc-" he began, then stopped short, his eyes narrowing when they landed on her.

His gaze swept down to the trolley, then snapped back to her face. He noticed the smudge on her lip before she did, and a slow sneer curled on his mouth-amused and disgusted all at once.

"Seriously?" he scoffed, his voice low but laced with contempt. "This is the professionalism Grand Hayat stands by?" He gestured lazily toward her mouth, as though she wasn't even worth a full sentence.

Annabelle blinked, confused. Then she turned slightly and caught a glimpse of her reflection in the elevator's polished walls. A tiny smear of pecan filling clung to the corner of her mouth. Barely there.

But he didn't care. He had already judged her.

"You know," he continued coldly, "wiping it off won't undo the fact you were clearly sampling food meant for the guests. You're a walking embarrassment to your uniform."

Annabelle's chest tightened with fury. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

"Excuse me?" she snapped, her voice sharp, cutting through the silence. "Don't go around throwing judgments like confetti. You don't know anything."

The pecan smear? That wasn't even her dish. Nora had begged her to try the flavor before serving it to the banquet team. She had tasted it. One quick check. That was it. But this man? He had painted her as unprofessional without knowing a damn thing.

She muttered under her breath, not caring if he heard, "You're the type who thinks everyone's a thief just because you don't trust your own shadow."

She should've kept her mouth shut.

Wrong move.

He took two deliberate steps forward. Each one echoed in the metal box like a countdown. His eyes gleamed with something darker than anger-dominance, maybe even arrogance. His entire demeanor shifted from annoyed to predatory.

Then, in one swift motion, he reached out, twisted her right hand behind her back, and leaned in, his face inches from hers.

Annabelle gasped, her back pressing into the cold elevator wall.

"You don't even know who I am," he growled, voice dangerously low. "So what the hell are you doing in the presidential lift?"

Her heart thundered in her chest, but she didn't back down. Even as his grip tightened, she stared him down with every ounce of defiance she had.

"You have no right to touch me," she spat. "Even if you're some big-shot assistant to the new president, that doesn't give you a free pass to act like a thug."

The moment the word "assistant" left her lips, his expression shifted. Cold amusement curled at the corners of his mouth.

"Assistant?" he echoed, his tone mocking. "Sweetheart... you really need to catch up."

Before she could blink, he grabbed her chin, tilting her face upward. His thumb skimmed dangerously close to her lips, his breath warm against her cheek as his eyes dropped to her mouth.

Annabelle stiffened.

Was he going to kiss her? In an elevator? After humiliating her like that?

Hell. No.

From the corner of her eye, Annabelle spotted a flicker of salvation-the glowing digital display above the doors showed the elevator had reached the 43rd floor, her destination.

Relief surged through her, mingling with pure rage. Without wasting a second, she shifted her weight, lifted her heel, and slammed it down hard on his foot, channeling every shred of fury, humiliation, and adrenaline into the strike.

"Ow-what the-" he growled, staggering back with a sharp intake of breath, clutching his foot as pain lanced through him.

Right then, the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, as if the universe itself had conspired in her favor.

Annabelle didn't look back.

She bolted out like a shot, her heart hammering in her chest, leaving behind a stunned and limping Richard Barton as the doors slowly closed.

Annabelle bolted out, pushing the trolley so fast she nearly left a trail of smoke behind her. She delivered the dessert tray to Room 4306 with trembling hands and a heart that refused to calm down.

By the time she returned to the kitchen, the staff was already lining up, preparing for the private dining cabin inspection.

The manager motioned for her to follow quickly.

Her shoes barely touched the floor as they entered the cabin, footsteps muffled against the plush carpet. Everyone was already seated. Elegant lighting. Gleaming cutlery. High-stakes tension.

And there he was.

Seated at the head of the table, exuding raw authority, sat the man from the elevator-now dressed in a tailored black suit, cufflinks gleaming under the crystal chandelier. Executives flanked him. A stunning woman-clearly someone important-sat beside him, chatting softly.

Richard Barton.

Her new boss.

Annabelle froze mid-step. Her lungs forgot how to breathe.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

She felt the blood drain from her face. Please, God, let him have short-term memory loss.

Forcing her limbs to move, she straightened her shoulders, wiped the panic from her face, and plastered on a tight, professional smile. She bowed politely and began serving soup, her hands praying not to tremble.

She was careful-calculated. She served the first executive. Then the second. Her eyes avoided Richard like he was the sun itself.

Then came the woman beside him. Elegant. Poised.

Annabelle stepped forward to serve her-just one smooth motion.

But fate had other plans.

Her heel caught on the edge of the trolley wheel.

In slow motion, she stumbled forward.

The bowl in her hand tilted. The steaming hot soup slipped.

And landed directly in Richard Barton's lap.

The entire room fell silent.

Gasps echoed from across the table.

Annabelle's eyes widened in horror as she watched the golden liquid soak into his charcoal slacks. A faint hiss of pain escaped his lips as he shoved his chair back.

Then his eyes lifted to hers-fiery, furious, and unforgiving.

No words were needed.

Annabelle stood frozen, tray still in hand, legs locked in place, her brain screaming-

I'm so dead.