Crippled by His Shadow

CHAPTER ONE: THE WRONG BED

ZARA’S POV

I wake up with the worst headache of my life. Like, my head feels like it is about to crack open and my mouth is so dry it hurts. My tongue feels like it is about to fall off, and everything tastes like cheap champagne and regret.

For a second there, I don’t even want to open my eyes.

For a number of reasons.

The bed feels wrong. Too soft. The pillow smells like perfume. Expensive, sharp, and definitely not mine.

That can't be good.

I force my eyes open and instantly regret it. The sunlight stabs through the thick hotel curtains and hits me right in the face. I groan, squinting as I drag the blanket up to hide. And then I feel it.

Heat. Another body beside me.

I freeze.

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. My whole body locks up. Slowly, carefully, I turn my head.

And there he is.

Damian Kush. My boss.

He is lying on his side, half-covered by the sheet. His back, his shoulders, all sharp lines and muscles. Even asleep he looks dangerous, like he is plotting a takeover in his dreams.

What the hell?

For a second, I honestly think I am seeing things. Maybe it is the hangover. Maybe I am trapped in a bad dream. Because there is no version of life where I, Zara Bennett, end up in bed with him. My boss.

But then I notice the soreness in my body. The ache between my thighs. My clothes were scattered all over the floor. And I know. It is real.

Oh no. Oh no.

No. No. No.

This can't be happening.

But it is not happening. It has already happened.

Memories slam into me in pieces. The office dinner. The music. My heels clacking across marble as I rushed around like an i***t. Damian’s eyes catching mine across the table, too sharp, too long. The champagne I kept drinking to “loosen up.” The laughter that sounded weird, like it wasn’t even mine.

And then his hand brushed mine. Just a second. Just a touch. But it burned.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop the flashbacks.

The night started insane. Damian gave me two days to plan the company’s annual dinner. Two. Because apparently billionaires don’t care about deadlines. “Make it flawless, Bennett,” he had said in that clipped voice, the one that makes me feel twelve years old again.

But I did it. The ballroom at the Grand Orion was glowing under gold chandeliers. The waiters moved like they were in some dance routine. The wine was imported, the food gorgeous. Everyone laughed, mingled, toasted. And me? I stood at the side, invisible, sipping water because I couldn’t risk screwing up.

Then a server shoved a glass of champagne into my hand. And I drank it. I don’t even know why. Stress, probably. Or maybe because I was so damn tired of being the boring assistant who never joins in.

One glass turned into two. Then four. And by the time Damian’s eyes found me again, my face was burning, and my laugh was way too loud.

“You are red,” he had said, smirking, voice so low I had to lean in.

“You are terrifying,” I shot back before I could stop myself.

For one second, I thought that was it. Fired. But then he laughed. A real laugh. Not his fake boardroom one. A real, deep laugh. My stomach flipped so hard I thought I was gonna faint.

And then we danced. God help me, I danced with him. One second we were joking about how clumsy I was, and the next, I was in his arms. The room spun, his cologne wrapped around me, and when I tripped, his hand tightened on my waist and held me there. Too close. Too much. And I forgot. I forgot he was my boss.

I don’t even remember who leaned in first. Maybe him. Maybe me. But once it started, it didn’t stop.

The rest is a blur. A car ride I barely remember. The hotel lobby. A keycard. His mouth on mine, rough and hungry. Clothes thrown everywhere. Him whispering my name like it meant something.

And now… I’m here. Naked. Hungover. In his bed.

Panic slams through me so hard I almost choke. My hands shake as I clutch the blanket. If anyone ever finds out, I am ruined. My career, my life, everything I have suffered for… it will be over.

Just then, Damian moves and my breath literally stops as he sits up, the sheets sliding off him. He doesn’t even look at me. Not once. He just grabs his shirt from the chair and buttons it up with that same precise calm he uses when he’s signing million-dollar deals. His jaw is sharp, his mouth tight. Blank.

Finally, he speaks. His voice is ice.

“Last night never happened.”

The words slice right through me.

I swallow hard. I want to say something, anything. I’m sorry. I was drunk. I didn’t mean it. Or maybe yell at him for acting like it meant nothing. But nothing comes out. My throat’s tight, my tongue heavy.

I slide out of bed, clutching the sheet, scrambling for my clothes. My dress is crumpled on the floor, one heel kicked halfway under the bed. I don’t care. I just need to get dressed and leave before I completely fall apart.

My fingers fumble on the zipper. My eyes turn blurry with tears and my pulse won’t slow down.

But neither do I.

I grab my bag, throw it over my shoulder, and head for the door without a word. Maybe silence will save me a little dignity.

But just as I touch the handle, his phone rings. The sound cuts through the room like a knife.

He answers right away, his voice cold, sharp, all business.

“Yes. Make sure no one finds out about the girl from last night.”

The girl from last night.

Me.

My stomach drops. My chest feels like it’s caving in. I can’t breathe.

I slip out the door quietly before he can see my face, my heart pounding so loud it feels like the whole hallway can hear it.

How am I supposed to move in from this now?

How can I face him tomorrow?