The light was the first thing that hit me, a brutal, uncompromising white glare that felt like a physical weight against my eyelids. My head throbbed with a rhythmic, dull pulse, a reminder of every shot of tequila and every glass of champagne I'd swallowed in a blur of neon lights. I tried to roll over, but the texture of the fabric beneath me was wrong. It wasn't the scratchy, thin cotton of my staff cot. It was silk. Cool, expensive, and impossibly smooth.
I snapped my eyes open, and the ceiling didn't have the familiar water stains of my room. It was vaulted, white, and perfect.
"Oh my God," I whispered, the words sounding raspy and foreign.
I bolted upright, and the cold air hitting my bare skin sent a jolt of pure electricity through my system. I was naked. I was in Ethan's bed. And the sun was already pouring through the massive windows of the master wing.
Panic, sharp and icy, sliced through my hangover. I didn't have time to process the headache or the haze. I scrambled out of the bed, my legs feeling like water. I found the liquid-midnight dress discarded on the rug, looking like a pool of ink in the morning light. I fumbled with my clothes, pulling the fabric over my head with trembling hands. I didn't even bother with the shoes, I just grabbed them and my discarded underwear, clutching them to my chest like stolen goods.
I slipped out of his room, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The hallway felt miles long. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a gunshot. I sprinted toward the service door, my bare feet silent on the hardwood, praying to every god I knew that Harrison wasn't already back.
I made it to the staff wing and ducked into my tiny room, leaning my back against the door and gasping for air. Only then, behind the safety of my own lock, did the world finally slow down enough for me to breathe.
I sank onto the edge of my narrow bed, the silence of my room a stark contrast to the pulsing music of the night before. Now that I wasn't running for my life, the memories began to flicker back like a damaged film reel.
I remembered the club, the way the bass had vibrated in my chest, and the way Ethan had looked at me, like I was the only person in a room of a thousand. I remembered the heat of the dance floor, our bodies moving sensually, locked together in a way that made the rest of the world disappear. I closed my eyes, and I could still feel the fire of his mouth on mine during that heated, desperate kiss in the bathroom, the cold tile against my back as he pulled me closer. I remembered the silent, fast drive back home, the wind whipping through my hair as we raced against the dawn.
And then, the heavy, undeniable weight of the rest.
*Flashback*
I felt his hands on me before I even saw him. My chest tightened, a tremor running through me as he cupped my face, thumb brushing softly over my cheek. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice low, almost afraid to break the quiet. His eyes searched mine like he needed permission, like he knew this wasn't just a kiss or a touch it was everything.
"I… I'm sure," I whispered, my heart hammering.
His lips met mine again, slow and deliberate, and the world fell away. I could feel the heat of his body pressing against me, the steady, grounding weight of him as his hands roamed over my back, sliding down to my waist, holding me tight. Every inch of him felt alive against me, and my breath caught in my throat.
"I want to be gentle," he murmured, forehead resting against mine. "I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't," I breathed, though my body quaked with a mix of fear and longing.
His hands slipped lower, over my hips, tracing the curve of my thighs, his touch electrifying in its softness. When he finally cupped me, I gasped, a strange combination of shyness and need washing over me. "It's my first time," I whispered, my voice shaking.
"I know," he said, his voice steady, warm, reassuring. "We'll go slow. I'll follow you."
And he did. Every movement was measured, tender, intimate. He kissed me along my jaw, down my neck, lingering at the hollow of my collarbone. I could feel the warmth spreading through me, slow, intoxicating. My hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, as his fingers traced the soft curve of my hips, sliding just enough to send shivers up my spine.
When he entered me, it was a moment of quiet, exquisite pressure. A tight, warm, overwhelming sensation that made me hold my breath. He stayed still for a heartbeat, giving me time to adjust, his lips capturing mine in a kiss that was equal parts reassurance and desire. Every shift, every careful movement of him pressed me deeper into him, a rhythm that built gradually, painfully beautiful.
I clutched at his shoulders, letting out soft, shaky moans as our bodies moved together, each touch tender but urgent, each kiss leaving fire in its wake. I could feel him everywhere, and yet it never felt forced. Every move was slow, deliberate, like we were discovering each other for the first time, like I was being seen in ways I had never been before.
"I….oh…..Ethan," I gasped, tears prickling my eyes as a wave of pleasure and emotion crashed over me. "It…..it hurts… but it feels..."
"Shh," he whispered, pressing his forehead to mine. "I've got you. Just breathe."
I did. I let myself fall into it completely the warmth, the weight, the slow, passionate rhythm. Every touch, every sigh, every whispered name stitched itself into me, a memory that burned as sweetly as it ached. And when it ended, he held me close, skin against skin, our breaths mingling, our hearts beating together in quiet, unspoken intimacy.
*End of flashback*
I stared at the wall, a wave of nausea rolling through my stomach that had nothing to do with the alcohol.
"I can't believe I gave my virginity to Ethan," I breathed, the realization sinking in like a lead weight.
It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Not to a girl like me, a girl who was supposed to be a ghost. I had handed over the only thing I had left that was truly mine to a man who was promised to another woman.
I looked at the dress in my hands. It was beautiful, and it was a piece of evidence. I couldn't throw it away, I had never owned anything so fine, but I couldn't leave it out. With shaking hands, I folded the midnight silk and tucked it, along with the high-heeled shoes, into the very back of my small wardrobe. I buried them deep beneath a stack of old towels and my winter coat. I knew that if they were found, they'd think I'd stolen them. In this house, a girl like me didn't own things like this; she only took them.
I sat there, the room spinning slightly, listening to the house begin to wake up. I was back in the cage. I was back to being Sasha the maid. But as the sound of a heavy car engine rumbled in the driveway downstairs, signaling the return of the Grants, I knew that the girl I used to be was gone. I had crossed a line I couldn't uncross, and the secret I was carrying now was far heavier than a fake name.