His for a night

His for a night

Fiona mills

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Arielle never meant to fall for the arrogant billionaire who turned her world upside down with one intense encounter. But when Damian Wolfe knocks on her door, everything changes. One night. One decision. And now, she might just be his... for more than a night.

His for a night Chapter 1 The Spill

The sun beamed through the glass roof of the city mall, making everything shimmer like a dream. I had just picked up my favorite coffee - caramel macchiato, extra foam - and was distracted by a sale sign when it happened.

One second I was walking, the next I slammed into something solid. Hard. Warm.

Or rather... someone.

The cup slipped from my hand, hot coffee splashing across both our clothes. Before I could stumble backward, strong arms caught me - firm, steady, almost instinctive.

I looked up.

And froze.

He had the kind of eyes that pull you in - dark, stormy, intense. There was a fire in them, wild and barely controlled, like a secret barely contained. It made my heart stutter.

"Hey, young lady," he said, his voice deep and annoyingly smooth. "Watch where you're going."

My trance broke like glass.

"Excuse me?" I snapped. "You bumped into me.

Maybe you should watch where you're going!"

He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "You spilled coffee on a five-thousand-dollar jacket."

"I should spill another cup for that attitude," I muttered under my breath, but loud enough for him to hear. Then I turned to walk away, ready to forget this arrogant stranger forever.

But he wasn't done.

A hand caught my wrist - not rough, but firm.

"I didn't say you could leave," he said coolly.

"Apologize."

I blinked. Was this man serious?

"I'm not apologizing," I said sharply. "You owe me one."

He smiled, slow and smug. Then he smirked.

"Suit yourself," he said, and with a simple wave of his hand, security appeared from the corner.

"Escort her out."

"What?" | gasped. "Are you insane?!"

Too late. People were already watching. Some whispered, others just stared.

And just like that, I was escorted out of the mall like a criminal - drenched in coffee and burning with embarrassment.

That was the first time I met him.

I didn't know his name then.

I only knew his smirk.

And the way my life would never be the same again.

I had never felt so humiliated - so infuriated - in my entire life. My cheeks were still burning as I stormed into my room, slammed the door shut, and threw myself onto the bed. My fists clenched at the thought of him. That arrogant jerk. That insufferable, condescending man. Who the hell did he think he was?

God, if I had the strength, I would've landed a punch on that smug face with my not-so-mighty wrist.

But as much as I wanted to erase him from my mind, his face kept flashing back - those piercing eyes, the way his jaw clenched, and that annoyingly perfect body that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover. Ugh. I hated him. Or at least, I told myself I did.

I closed my eyes, groaning into the pillow.

One day - just one more chance. I prayed I'd see him again. Just long enough to land that punch.

Maybe two.

As I drifted away into a restless sleep, the fire of anger still simmering in my chest, his face refused to leave my mind. It hovered there, in the dark - sharp jawline, unreadable eyes, and that maddeningly confident smirk. Even in sleep, he haunted me.

But then the dream shifted.

I was back in the mall. Only this time, the crowd had vanished, and the lights above flickered like something out of a thriller. He stood there again, but calmer - no insults, no smirk. Just silence. We stood face to face, like two magnets trying to decide whether to repel or pull.

His voice echoed low and husky in the empty space.

"You're not what I expected."

Before I could respond, I jolted awake - breath caught in my throat, heart racing like l'd run a marathon.

I sat up in bed, dazed.

What the hell was that?

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Six years ago, I was a naive girl sold by my father to the powerful Sanders estate, only to be tossed onto the streets after a brutal assault they labeled "marital infidelity." I fled the country pregnant and broken, hiding from the shadow of a husband I had never even met. Now, I’ve returned to New York with my triplets to sign the final divorce papers and disappear forever. But Archibald Sanders—the man I was told was a crippled recluse—intercepted us with the cold precision of a predator. He didn't see the woman his family destroyed; he saw a gold-digger who had shamed his name. His security team hunted us to a grimy motel, using tactical force to snatch my children away and drag me to his glass-walled empire. In his office, he loomed over me, demanding a DNA test and threatening to throw me in prison while my babies were lost to the foster system. He was convinced I’d cheated, yet he stared at my sons with a haunting confusion, unable to ignore the stormy blue eyes that were a perfect mirror of his own. I stood there, paralyzed by his scent—the sharp tang of rain and expensive leather that triggered the icy dread of my worst nightmares. How could he accuse me of betrayal when he felt exactly like the monster who had shattered my life in that dark hotel room? "I'll sign anything," I sobbed, "just give me my kids." But the game changed when my five-year-old son hacked the tower’s security, holding the skyscraper hostage to save me. In the chaos, a fragile, silent boy—Archibald’s secret son—wandered into the room and reached for me as if I were his missing soul. Archibald’s face turned to stone as he tore up the agreement and locked the doors. "Until I find out why my son is looking at you like that," he growled, "you aren't going anywhere."

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