One night stand with the hot billionaire

# Chapter One

Amara's hands shook as she gripped the wildflowers, their stems already wilting from her sweaty palms. Three weeks of planning this surprise. Three weeks of telling herself that Dominic's distance meant nothing, that his cold responses to her texts were just stress from work. That when she showed up at his hotel room tonight, everything would go back to normal.

The elevator climbed slowly, each floor a countdown to what she hoped would fix them. Room 304. She slid the key card—stolen from his jacket pocket days ago—and turned the handle.

The door opened to her worst nightmare.

Dominic was pressed against the wall, his pants around his ankles, driving into Kira with savage intensity. Kira's legs were wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back in ecstasy, her moans filling the room. His face was twisted with raw lust—an expression Amara had never seen in their two years together.

"Yes, Dom! God, yes!" Kira screamed.

The flowers hit the floor with a pathetic thud.

They froze. Dominic's face went white, then red with guilt and anger—not at himself, but at being caught.

"Amara, I can explain—"

"Explain what?" The words ripped from her throat like broken glass. "Explain how you've been fucking your 'business partner' while I've been planning our future?"

"It's not what you think—"

"I LOVED YOU!" The scream tore her vocal cords. "I gave you everything! I was planning to tell you tonight that I was ready—that I wanted to give myself to you completely—and you're here screwing this whore!"

Kira smirked, not even bothering to cover herself. "Maybe if you'd put out, he wouldn't have needed to find it elsewhere."

The cruelty of it shattered something fundamental inside Amara. Two years of waiting, of saving herself, of believing Dominic respected her choice to wait for marriage. And this was what her love was worth.

She turned and ran, her sobs echoing off the hotel walls like the sound of her heart breaking. Her chest felt crushed, each breath a knife wound. The betrayal wasn't just infidelity—it was the destruction of every dream, every plan, every moment of trust she'd ever given him.

She stumbled blindly down the hallway, tears blurring her vision, when a strong hand caught her wrist.

"Please..." The voice was deep, gravelly, desperate. "Help me."

Through her tears, she looked up at a man who seemed carved from dark fantasies. He was massive—at least six-foot-four with shoulders that stretched his expensive shirt to its limits. His jaw was sharp enough to cut glass, covered with dark stubble that made her want to feel its roughness against her skin. Black hair fell across his forehead in messy waves, and his eyes—God, his eyes were the color of midnight storms, wild and dangerous and beautiful.

But something was wrong. His pupils were dilated, his breathing labored. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the air conditioning.

"Someone drugged me," he said, his voice thick. "I can barely think straight. I need..." His grip on her wrist tightened, not painful but desperate. "I need help."

She should have run. Should have called security. But the raw vulnerability in his voice, the way his powerful body trembled with whatever was coursing through his system—it called to something broken inside her.

"My room," he managed, nodding toward a door marked 308. "Please. I don't trust myself out here."

Maybe it was the drugs in his system, or the emotional devastation clouding her judgment, but she let him guide her inside. The door clicked shut behind them.

He leaned against it, chest heaving. "I'm sorry. I know this is insane. I just—" His eyes locked on hers. "You have the most beautiful eyes."

"Don't." The word came out as a whisper. "Don't lie to me. Not tonight."

"I'm not lying." He stepped closer, his heat radiating toward her. "Even through this fog, I can see you clearly. You're gorgeous. And you're hurt."

The simple acknowledgment of her pain broke something loose inside her. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

"He was supposed to love me," she whispered.

"Then he's an idiot." The stranger's thumb brushed away a tear, his touch gentle despite the obvious struggle he was having with control. "What's your name?"

"Amara."

"Amara." He said it like a prayer. "I'm—God, I can barely remember my own name right now. But I know I want to make you forget whatever bastard hurt you."

His words sent heat spiraling through her belly. She should leave. Should run back to her empty apartment and cry herself to sleep. Instead, she found herself stepping closer.