Married to My One-Night Stand: He Takes Me Every Night

Chloe

I woke in darkness so thick I couldn't see my own hand. For one terrifying second, I thought I'd gone blind.

Then I felt him.

Oh god. What had I done?

I was naked. He was naked. When his hand brushed my waist, I jerked away so hard the bed creaked.

"Easy," he murmured, voice low and rough like gravel. Not cruel. Just... gentle. "I've got you."

He moved slowly, deliberately, like I might shatter. His body was solid against mine—broad chest, defined muscles shifting under warm skin.

His breath was hot against my neck, and god, those hands were big, spanning my waist like it was nothing. His fingers traced down my spine, gentle but sure, leaving trails of heat.

"You're shaking," he whispered. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

His lips found my shoulder, careful and unhurried. The weight of him above me was solid, grounding—all hard muscle and controlled strength.

When his hand cupped my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone, something inside me cracked—not breaking, just... opening.

His body moved with careful precision, like he was holding himself back, keeping his strength in check. Whenever I gasped, he'd slow down, whisper promises nobody should make to strangers.

When it ended, he didn't just roll away. Footsteps across the carpet, water running, then he was back with something warm and wet. He cleaned me up with the same gentleness, like I was something fragile. When he kissed my forehead, I nearly lost it.

"Sleep," he said, pulling the blanket over us. His arm settled around my waist, solid and safe. "Tomorrow will be better."

I woke to gray light, head pounding, mouth tasting like death. The man beside me was still asleep, breathing deep and even.

In the dim light, I could make out his shape—tall, over six feet, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. Defined arms from real work, not just gym vanity. But his face? Turned away, buried in the pillow.

My clothes were scattered everywhere—dress ripped, underwear gone. But his clothes were draped over a chair.

I grabbed them fast.

The shirt hung to my thighs, way too big even on my two-hundred-pound frame. The pants needed rolling up four times. I looked ridiculous, but at least I was covered.

My purse lay on the floor, contents spilled like a crime scene. I shoved everything back with shaking hands—dead phone, keys, empty wallet except for...

One dollar bill. Crumpled and torn. My last dollar.

I stared at that pathetic piece of paper. This guy had been gentle with me. Taken care of me. And I was gonna walk out in his clothes, leaving nothing?

NO!

I might be broke, fat, the biggest mess in LA. But I wasn't a charity case. I definitely wasn't gonna owe anyone, especially not some stranger who'd seen me at my worst.

I smoothed out the dollar and placed it on the nightstand. Then I scribbled on the hotel notepad:

Thank you for last night's kindness. This is all I have. We're even now. —C

I folded the note around the dollar, grabbed my phone, and slipped into the hallway.

Halfway across the lobby, I heard voices from the stairwell. Familiar voices. I froze, then ducked behind a massive potted palm, heart hammering.

"Mom, it's done." Mia's voice, vibrating with satisfaction. "I personally delivered that fat pig straight into his room."

My blood turned to ice.

"And no one can trace this back?" That was Evelyn Sterling—who'd raised me eighteen years, then kicked me out the day the DNA test came back.

"Please. I wiped the security footage. As far as anyone knows, Chloe stumbled in drunk and desperate." Mia laughed like breaking glass. "You should've seen her. Two hundred pounds of pure desperation. Like a pig in heat."

I pressed my hand over my mouth, fighting nausea.

"The man?" Evelyn asked sharply.

"Some old drunk, fifty-something. Bald. Beer gut. Exactly the loser that cow deserves."

Wait. What?

Bald? Beer gut? Fifty-something?

My mind spun back to the man upstairs. Those broad shoulders. The defined muscles shifting under warm skin with every movement. The narrow waist. That solid weight above me—all controlled strength and raw power.

That wasn't a fifty-year-old body with a beer gut. That was someone young, fit, built like a fucking god.

Had Mia put me in the wrong room? Or had I stumbled into the wrong bed?

Either way, the man I'd slept with wasn't the one Mia thought she'd set me up with.

"Oh, and Mom? Those vitamins I've been giving her?"

"What about them?"

"They're not vitamins. They're hormones. For five years. Every pill designed to make her gain weight. That's why she went from normal to two hundred pounds. Because I made her that way."

The stairwell door slammed shut.

Five years.

Five years since they'd thrown me out of their mansion and into that roach-infested apartment in East LA.

Five years of Mia showing up every month with her "care packages"—those vitamin bottles, each one delivered with a sympathetic smile and a hug that made my skin crawl.

And I'd taken them. Every single one. Because some pathetic part of me still wanted to believe she cared.

I stumbled home and went straight to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet. When there was nothing left, I sat on the cold tile and let myself cry—huge, ugly sobs trapped inside me for five years.

Then I got up, washed my face, and walked to the kitchen.

All those bottles she'd brought me—lined up on the counter like trophies. I swept them into the trash with one violent motion, listening to them shatter.

"Fuck you, Mia," I whispered. "Fuck your poison and your perfect face and your perfect life. I'm done being your victim."

I wasn't broken. Just buried. And I was gonna dig myself out.

"One year," I told my reflection. "One year to lose ninety pounds. One year to get strong enough to make them all pay. One year to become someone they can't ignore, can't dismiss, can't destroy."

The girl in the mirror slowly nodded.

Twelve months of hell—running at dawn until I threw up, meals barely qualifying as food, workouts that left me crying.

Twelve months of counting calories, tracking macros, pushing through weeks-long plateaus. Going to bed hungry, waking up sore.

But it worked. I wasn't that girl anymore. I was something harder. Something that fought back.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

"Chloe Harrison?" Cold, female voice. "This is Evelyn Sterling. We need to talk about your mother."

I hadn't spoken to Evelyn in six years. Not since she'd looked at eighteen-year-old me in that hospital bed and said, "You're not my daughter. Get out." If she was calling, she wanted something.

"I'm listening."

"Your biological mother, Margaret Harrison, is dying. Stage four cancer. Treatment exceeds one hundred fifty thousand per month. Your father spent everything looking for you before he died. There's nothing left."

My chest tightened, but I kept my voice steady. "What's your point?"

"I have access to an experimental treatment program. Cutting-edge cancer therapy, only available to select patients. I can get your mother in. But there's a price."

Of course. Always a price with Evelyn.

"What do you want?"

"The Astor family has proposed a marriage alliance," Evelyn said, her voice smooth as silk. "The groom is Julian Astor—from one of LA's most prestigious families. Old money, impeccable lineage. This is an extraordinary opportunity for someone in your... position."

Julian Astor.

I knew that name. Anyone who followed LA's high society gossip knew about the Astor family's tragic secret. Fifty-something. Disfigured from a car accident. Wheelchair-bound. Supposedly bankrupt and mentally unstable.

The man nobody wanted to marry.

If it's so generous, why isn't Mia jumping at the chance?

Silence stretched between us like a tightrope.

"Your mother is dying—"

"And you're holding her life hostage." I cut her off. "Let's not pretend this is anything but extortion."

I thought about Margaret Harrison, lying in that hospital bed. A stranger who shared my DNA. I thought about my father, who'd died searching for me.

And I thought about Mia and Evelyn, who'd poisoned me for five years and laughed.

"You want to ship me off to marry some broken old man nobody else wants," I said quietly.