One Night One Mistake

The first thing Camille Hart noticed was the silence.

Not the kind of silence that soothed, but the kind that screamed. The kind that made her heartbeat sound louder than it should. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, and unfamiliar light poured in through floor-to-ceiling windows, flooding the room with cold, sterile morning.

Her throat felt dry. Her limbs heavy.

Her mind-blank.

The king-sized bed beneath her was impossibly soft. The silk sheets, smooth against her bare skin, clung to her like shame. Slowly, dread settled in her stomach like a stone.

She wasn't home.

This wasn't her bed.

And she wasn't alone last night.

She sat up in a panic, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her head pounded violently at the motion. The expensive suite came into view-marble floors, a balcony overlooking the skyline, a suit jacket draped over a velvet armchair. The vague scent of cologne still lingered in the air-sharp, masculine, rich.

Her eyes darted around. No one else was in the room.

But she had definitely not been alone.

She closed her eyes and tried to remember.

The gala.

Three glasses of wine.

A man.

A man with piercing eyes, a commanding presence, and a voice like silk over steel.

God.

Her stomach twisted. The details were blurry, but her instincts screamed that she had made a mistake-a big one.

She slid out of bed, pulling the sheet around her body, and found her black dress crumpled on the armchair. Her shoes were near the door. She dressed in silence, moving on autopilot. Her fingers trembled as she zipped herself up.

Then she saw it.

On the nightstand.

A credit card.

Her blood froze.

She stepped closer. The card was placed perfectly-like a business transaction completed.

Christian Ford.

Her fingers curled into a fist around the sheet.

She had heard the name before. Everyone had.

He wasn't just a CEO-he was the CEO. Ford International. Multi-billion dollar empire. Known for making companies rise and people disappear with a signature.

Cold. Calculated. Cruel.

And now... apparently the man she'd spent the night with.

Camille's pulse pounded in her ears. Her thoughts spiraled, clawing through memories, trying to make sense of everything.

Did he think she was-

No. No, no, no.

She wasn't that kind of woman.

She grabbed the card, her jaw tightening. She would keep it, not for the money-but to remember. To remember the moment her self-respect cracked. To remind herself never to fall that low again.

And to one day return it to his smug face.

Three Days Later

She almost turned around when she saw the name "Ford International" Skyscraper of steel and glass. Home to sharks in suits.

And-unfortunately-the place that had just offered her a final-round interview.

Camille stood outside the revolving doors, palms sweating, résumé folder clutched tightly in her hand.

She had applied months ago. Before the gala. Before the night that twisted her life into something unrecognizable. She hadn't connected the dots-too busy applying for dozens of jobs to keep the lights on.

But now, standing here, she knew.

Christian Ford.

The same man.

Her new potential boss.

She should've walked away. Should've turned, run, disappeared back into the crowd of invisible job seekers scraping by on broken dreams.

But she didn't.