My Ex-Husband’s Boss Wants Me

Chapter3

One Night, No Names

Elara's POV

The penthouse was nothing like I expected. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, but the space felt warm rather than cold. Lived in rather than staged. Books lined one wall. A half-empty glass of something amber sat on the coffee table.

Human. Despite everything about Rowan that suggested otherwise.

The door clicked shut behind us, and suddenly the weight of what I was doing hit me. I was in a stranger's home. About to sleep with a man whose last name I'd learned an hour ago. This wasn't me. I didn't do this.

Except the old me was gone, discarded in a hotel ballroom with divorce papers and broken promises.

"Second thoughts?" Rowan's voice came from behind me, close but not touching.

"Third, fourth, maybe fifth," I admitted, still staring out at the city lights.

"I can call the car. No judgment, no questions."

I turned to face him. He meant it. I could see it in his eyes. He would let me walk away, and somehow that made me want to stay more than anything else could.

"I don't want to leave," I said quietly. "I just don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

"Be someone who has one-night stands with mysterious strangers."

His mouth curved slightly. "Then don't be that person. Just be Elara. Just be here."

He moved closer, but slowly. Giving me time to change my mind. When his hand came up to cup my face, his touch was gentle. Careful. Like I might shatter.

Maybe I would.

"You're shaking," he murmured.

"I'm cold. The rain."

"Liar." But there was no judgment in it. He shrugged out of his jacket, draped it around my shoulders. It smelled like him. "Better?"

"No." I looked up at him. "I need you to make me forget. Please."

Something flashed in his dark eyes. Heat. Hunger. But also something softer. "I'll try."

When he kissed me, it wasn't what I expected. Not rough or demanding. It was slow, deep, devastating. Like he was trying to learn every part of my mouth. Like he had all the time in the world and planned to use it.

My hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. I needed more. Needed the oblivion I'd come here for. But Rowan didn't rush. His hands moved through my wet hair, down my back, across my waist. Mapping me like I was territory worth exploring.

"Bedroom," I breathed against his mouth.

"Patience."

"I don't want patience. I want to forget."

He pulled back just enough to look at me. Really look at me. "Then let me help you remember something else instead."

"What?"

"That you're not disposable. Not convenient. Not something to be used and thrown away." His thumb traced my bottom lip. "You're worth more than that."

My eyes burned. I would not cry. Not again. Not that night.

"Show me," I whispered.

He did.

His bedroom was dark except for ambient light from the city. The bed was massive, covered in sheets that probably cost more than my rent. But I barely noticed because Rowan's hands were on the zipper of my ruined dress, sliding it down with aching slowness.

"This dress," he said against my shoulder. "You wore it for him."

"Yes."

"Forget him. Tonight, you wore it for you." He pressed a kiss to my bare skin. "And tomorrow, you'll never think of it again."

The dress pooled at my feet. I stood before him in nothing but damp underwear, feeling exposed and powerful at the same time. Rowan's gaze traveled over me, hot and possessive.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "Absolutely beautiful."

No one had looked at me like this in years. Like I was something to be savored rather than tolerated. My hands went to his shirt, working the buttons. He helped, shrugging it off to reveal a body that made my breath catch. Muscled, but not in a gym-obsessed way. Powerful. A scar ran along his ribs. I traced it with my fingers.

"Later," he said, catching my hand. "Tonight isn't about my stories."

"Then what's it about?"

"You. Just you."

He guided me to the bed, followed me down. His weight settled over me, perfect and grounding. When he kissed me again, it was deeper. Hungrier. His mouth traveled down my neck, my collarbone, lower. Every touch felt deliberate. Intentional. Like he was trying to rewrite my skin's memory of being ignored.

"Rowan." His name was a gasp.

"Tell me what you need."

"You. All of you. Now."

"Not yet." His fingers hooked into my underwear, sliding them down. "First, I want to hear you forget your own name."

He did exactly that.

Hours blurred together. We came together like collision, like salvation, like something I didn't have words for. Rowan was demanding and gentle at the same time. He pushed me to the edge and pulled me back. Made me beg and then gave me everything.

Between the hunger, there were quiet moments. His fingers tracing patterns on my back. My head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow. The feeling of being held like I mattered.

"Tell me something," I murmured into the darkness. We were tangled in sheets, my body deliciously sore, my mind finally quiet.

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything. Everything. Nothing." I propped myself up on my elbow to look at him. "You haven't asked me a single question all night."

"I don't need your history to know who you are."

"And who am I?"

His hand came up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Strong. Even when you feel broken. Brave. Even when you're terrified. Real. Even when someone tried to make you feel like you weren't enough."

My throat tightened. "You barely know me."

"I know enough."

I wanted to ask what he meant. Wanted to ask who he really was, why people feared him, what he did that required a driver and a penthouse and the kind of control he carried like a second skin. But asking meant this became real. Meant it was more than one night of forgetting.

So instead, I kissed him. Poured everything I couldn't say into it. And he responded with the same intensity, pulling me under again.

Dawn crept through the windows in shades of gray and gold. I woke tangled around Rowan, his arm heavy across my waist. For a moment, I let myself feel it. The warmth. The safety. The dangerous comfort of being wanted.

Then reality crashed back.

This was one night. An escape. A mistake I'd needed to make but couldn't repeat. Because men like Rowan didn't want women like me for more than this. And I couldn't survive being discarded again.

I slipped out of bed carefully. Rowan didn't stir. In sleep, he looked younger. Less dangerous. Almost peaceful.

I found my dress crumpled on the floor, wrinkled and ruined. Perfect metaphor. I put it on anyway, grabbed my shoes. No note. No number. That wasn't the deal.

The elevator ride down felt eternal. In the lobby, early morning joggers passed by. Normal people living normal lives. I didn't know what I was anymore.

Outside, I hailed a cab with shaking hands. Gave my apartment address. Watched the building disappear behind me.

"Just Elara," I whispered to myself. "That's all you are. Just Elara."

The cab driver glanced at me in the mirror. "You say something?"

"No. Nothing."

Four hours later, I was standing outside a corporate building downtown. The law firm handling my divorce had insisted on this meeting. Something about paperwork. I didn't care. I just wanted it over.

I was wearing a simple black dress, my hair pulled back, my armor back in place. The night before felt like a fever dream. A beautiful, reckless, never-to-be-repeated mistake.

I walked through the revolving doors into a lobby of marble and money. Checked the directory. Sixteenth floor.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. I stepped out into a reception area, gave my name to the woman at the desk. She directed me to a conference room down the hall.

I was halfway there when I heard it. The sound of an executive elevator opening behind me.

I didn't know why I turned. Maybe curiosity. Maybe instinct.

The world stopped.

Rowan Blackwell stepped out of the elevator. Not in casual clothes. In a three-piece suit that probably cost more than my car. His hair was perfectly styled. His expression was all business. Two men flanked him, carrying briefcases and wearing the kind of deference that came with power.

Our eyes met across the lobby. I watched recognition flare in his gaze. Watched something else follow it. Something I couldn't read.

He stopped walking. I stopped breathing.

"Mr. Blackwell," one of the men said. "The board meeting."

But Rowan didn't move. Just stared at me like I was a ghost he couldn't quite believe was real.

And I stood frozen, my carefully rebuilt world cracking apart, as one terrible thought crystallized: This wasn't just a one-night stand with a stranger. This was something much, much worse.