The Night He Chose Me

Isla Pov

The whiskey burns, but not enough.

I signal the bartender for another, ignoring the concerned glance he throws my way. It's my third—or fourth—I've lost count. The numbers don't matter tonight. Nothing matters tonight except forgetting.

Ten years. A full decade since my father died, and the wound still feels fresh.

The Meridian Bar is upscale, expensive, the kind of place where people come to see and be seen. Chrome fixtures. Mood lighting. A piano playing something melancholic in the corner. I chose it specifically because nobody knows me here. No pitying looks. No awkward condolences. Just anonymous oblivion.

My phone buzzes again. Brandon, checking on me for the fifteenth time today. I silence it without reading the message.

"You look like you're trying to forget something."

The voice comes from my right—low, smooth, with an edge that suggests danger. I don't look up immediately. Instead, I take a slow sip of my fresh drink, letting the amber liquid coat my throat.

"I am," I finally say, turning.

The man sliding onto the barstool beside me is unfairly attractive. Sharp jawline. Dark hair that looks like he's run his hands through it one too many times. Eyes so dark they're almost black in the dim lighting. His suit is tailored perfectly, expensive but not ostentatious. The kind of man who's used to getting what he wants.

"Then let me help," he says, and there's something in the way he says it—confident, direct, absolutely certain—that makes heat pool low in my stomach.

I should say no. I should finish my drink, go home, and let this anniversary pass like all the others. Alone. Safe. Controlled.

But tonight, I don't want safe.

"What did you have in mind?" I ask, meeting his gaze directly.

His lips curve into something that's not quite a smile. "What are you drinking?"

"Whiskey. Neat."

He signals the bartender, orders two. When they arrive, he slides one toward me, raises his own glass.

"To forgetting," he says.

"To forgetting," I echo, and we drink.

We talk—about everything and nothing. Architecture, the way cities hide their scars beneath glass and steel. Art. The difference between building something beautiful and building something that lasts. He's intelligent, articulate, and he listens like my words actually matter.

I don't ask his name. He doesn't ask mine. It feels deliberate, this anonymity. Like we're playing roles in someone else's story.

One drink becomes three. His hand finds my knee under the bar—casual, testing. I don't move away. Instead, I lean closer, just enough that our shoulders touch.

"You never answered my question," I say, voice lower than before.

"Which one?"

"How exactly do you plan to help me forget?"

His eyes darken. "I have a few ideas."

The air between us shifts, charges. He stands, extends his hand. I take it without hesitation.

Outside, the city glitters. A car waits—sleek, black, expensive. The driver doesn't ask questions as we slide into the backseat.

His mouth finds mine before the door fully closes. The kiss is desperate, hungry, everything I've been denying myself for too long. His hand tangles in my hair. Mine clutches his shirt, pulling him closer.

The drive to his place—I assume it's his place—is a blur of heat and hands and whispered promises.

His penthouse is all floor-to-ceiling windows and minimalist furniture. I barely notice. We stumble toward what I assume is a bedroom, shedding clothing along the way. His jacket. My dress. His shirt, revealing a body that suggests he spends considerable time maintaining it.

"Last chance to change your mind," he murmurs against my neck.

"I'm not changing my mind."

What follows is everything I needed tonight to feel. To forget. To lose myself in sensation rather than memory.

He's attentive, demanding, completely present in a way that makes everything else fade. For the first time in ten years, I'm not the architect's daughter. I'm not defined by grief or responsibility or the weight of unanswered questions.

I'm just a woman in a stranger's bed, choosing recklessness over caution.

And it feels like freedom

I wake to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows. My body aches in the best possible way. The sheets are silk, cool against my skin.

I reach across the bed—empty.

Sitting up, I survey the room properly for the first time. Expensive art on the walls. Designer furniture. Everything immaculate and impersonal, like a hotel room for someone with unlimited funds.

He's gone. No note. No explanation. Just the ghost of cedar and smoke clinging to the pillows.

Part of me is relieved. One perfect night, no messy morning-after conversation. Clean. Simple.

Then I see it.

On the nightstand, beside the lamp: a business card. Heavy cardstock, embossed lettering.

My stomach drops as I read the name.

Kennedy Development. Ellis Kennedy, CEO.

My blood runs cold. Kennedy Development. The company that just acquired my architecture firm last month. The company involved in the construction project where my father died.

I grab my phone with shaking hands, pull up the firm's acquisition documents I'd skimmed last week. There, in the press photos: Ellis Kennedy.

The stranger from last night. The man whose sheets I woke up in.

My new boss.

"What have I done?"

The words echo in the empty penthouse, unanswered. I dress quickly, fingers fumbling with my zipper, and flee before he can return.

But as I step into the elevator, one thought circles relentlessly through my mind:

Monday morning, I'll have to face him. And everything I tried to forget tonight is about to become impossible to escape.