CLAIMED BY THE TYCOON

Jokes on me

I woke up slow. You know that weird kind of morning where everything feels too still? Like you already know something’s off before your brain catches up? That was me. Sheets soft under my skin. Room too quiet. Air too clean.

For a second, I panicked. Then I looked around.

Hotel suite.

My heart did this weird kick in my chest.

Shit.

Last night came back in flashes. His hands. My back against the wall. That low voice in my ear telling me I tasted like trouble.

I sat up, slowly, wrapping the sheet around my body. I was naked underneath, and sore in all the places that reminded me I didn’t dream what happened.

My dress was folded on a chair. My heels placed neatly by the door. My phone was plugged into the charger beside the bed.

That was the part that got me.

He’d plugged in my phone.

Mikhail Devereux didn’t seem like the type of man who gave a damn if a girl woke up with 2% battery.

But he did. And he wasn’t in the bed.

My chest tightened a little. I don’t know why. I didn’t want anything from him. It was just one night. One insane, impulsive, probably-stupid night.

I slipped out of bed, walking carefully across the hardwood floor. The sheet dragged behind me like I was in one of those cliché morning-after movie scenes. Except I didn’t feel romantic. I felt... raw. Like I’d done something I couldn’t undo.

The bathroom door creaked.

And there he was.

Mikhail stepped out, steam rolling behind him. His hair was wet, messy. A white towel slung around his waist. Chest bare. Arms folded across his stomach.

He looked at me, not blinking.

"Thought you’d still be sleeping," he said, voice thick from the shower.

I stood frozen, still clutching the sheet like some kind of pathetic armor.

"I was... I mean, I was gonna leave."

He raised one eyebrow. "You’re not in trouble, sweetheart. But next time, say goodbye like a woman."

I stared at him. My mouth opened, but nothing smart came out. Just heat rushing to my cheeks.

"There won’t be a next time," I mumbled.

He shrugged, walking to the wardrobe. Pulled out a black button-down like this was just another Tuesday. "If you say so."

I reached for my dress. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. I just needed to get dressed and pretend none of this happened. My fingers were shaky trying to unzip the sheet off me. Everything about me felt too loud. Too obvious.

"Water’s still warm," he said casually, tossing a towel toward the bathroom. "Unless you’re scared to be in a glass box with a man old enough to ruin you."

I stopped.

Turned.

My voice came out sharper than I expected. "You didn’t seem to care about your age last night."

He smirked. Not a full one. Just enough to say he knew he had me rattled. "So you do remember."

"I remember enough."

He buttoned his shirt slowly. Watchful. Unrushed.

I opened the bathroom door. Looked back once.

"I’ll shower. If that makes me a mistake, make it twice."

—

The water was hot. The steam filled the room until I couldn’t see the mirror anymore. My hair stuck to my neck. I just stood there, letting the water hit my back like maybe it would wash away how exposed I felt.

Then I felt him.

He didn’t say anything. Just slid in behind me.

His hands were rougher now. Less cautious. One pressed to the curve of my lower back. The other tracing the slope of my shoulder.

He didn’t kiss me. Not like last night. This was different. Slower. But heavier.

"You keep touching lines you don’t understand," he said quietly.

I leaned into him. My spine hit his chest. I could feel the tension there.

"Then teach me," I said.

He didn’t. Not with words.

His mouth found my collarbone. His hand slid down, anchoring me where he wanted. My breath hitched. He didn’t push it too far, didn’t take it all the way again. But he made sure I felt everything. That every inch of me remembered him later.

When I stepped out, my legs were jelly. I wrapped the towel around me fast, trying to breathe normal again.

He was already dressed. Shoes polished. Shirt tucked. Hair slicked. Like none of it had touched him at all.

"I don’t take interns seriously, Amira," he said without turning.

I stopped in the middle of pulling my dress over my hips. "You think I expected you to?"

He finally looked at me.

"You’re young. You’ll move on."

The words stung. Like a slap made of silk.

I grabbed my bag, trying to keep my spine straight even though my heart was thudding like an i***t.

He moved toward the door before I could.

"Next time," he said as his hand rested on the handle, "don’t let your friend poison your drink."

I froze.

My stomach twisted. Lara. Of course he knew. He probably saw it. Probably watched everything.

I didn’t say anything. Just walked out.

—

The office was a blur.

I got in late. My hair was tied in some lazy half-bun. My face had that weird glow that comes from lack of sleep and too much... contact.

Nobody said anything.

Except Lara.

She walked in all bouncy and smug, plopped into the seat beside mine in the intern space.

"You disappeared," she grinned. "I was waiting. Thought maybe you went home with the bartender."

I faked a yawn. "Nah. Got a migraine. Left early."

She gave me a look like she didn’t believe me but didn’t care enough to press. Her attention was already on her phone.

Mine buzzed.

Aiden: “Missed you last night. Come over later? I’ll make dinner. Just us.”

I stared at the screen.

My heart didn’t react the way it used to.

Guilt? A little.

Regret? Not really.

Confusion? Definitely.

What the hell was I doing?

A notification pinged on the office screen.

Mr. Devereux has entered the building.

I swallowed.

He passed our floor less than thirty minutes later. I didn’t look up. But I saw him in the glass. Saw the way his shadow moved like the floor belonged to him.

He didn’t look at me.

But as he walked past, his hand brushed the corner of my desk. Just slightly.

And for one second, I swore my lungs forgot how to work.

I went from one liar’s bed to another’s arms, and I still thought I was in control.

Joke’s on me. I don’t think I ever was.