Her One Night Stand

chapter 3

Salma blinked. “There might already be teeth.”

“Meaning?”

“There were hotel cameras. And a staff boy recognized me. He said people talk.”

Sophia’s mouth went flat. “They always do.”

“What if my father hears?” Salma whispered. “What if he finds me? What if he drags me back to Lukas and—”

“Hey.” Sophia’s voice softened. “You’re safe here. We will handle it.”

“How?” Salma asked. It sounded like a child’s question.

“We start by turning off your phone,” Sophia said, practical and calm. “And by resting. You look like you fought a war last night.”

Salma pulled her phone from her bag, stared at the black screen, and put it face down on the counter. She did not turn it on. She didn’t want to see messages. She didn’t want to see her father’s name.

Sophia made tea. She put honey in it without asking. She turned on quiet music. She opened the window to let in some breeze and the far-away noise of the city. It sounded like normal life. Salma clung to that sound.

“Stay as long as you need,” Sophia said. “I’ll cover for you.”

“Thank you.”

“No thanks,” Sophia said with a little smile. “What are friends for?”

Salma tried again to laugh and managed it this time. It came out small but real.

She drank her tea. She closed her eyes. For a few minutes, she drifted.

Behind her eyelids, a room came back. A hand came back. His mouth came back. Her own voice came back, low and shameless. She pressed her knuckles to her lips, as if to push the memory away. It stayed anyway.

She didn’t know his name. She didn’t know his face. But she could still feel him.

It scared her. It steadied her. Both.

“Sleep,” Sophia said, taking the empty mug. “We’ll figure the rest out later.”

Salma nodded and went to the guest room. She curled up on the soft bed. The sheets smelled like laundry and the hint of Sophia’s perfume. She breathed slower. She didn’t cry. She didn’t have tears left.

She slept.

BEVERLY HILLS

Across the city, Aiden opened his eyes to a dull roar in his head.

He lay there, still as stone, letting his senses catch up. The bed was warm. The room was dim. The clock on the nightstand said 9:12 AM. The taste in his mouth was whiskey and something sweet that didn’t belong.

He sat up and dragged a hand through his hair. It fell into his eyes. He pushed it back. The room steadied.

He then remembered Sylvia. How she had smiled too sweetly and handed him a drink that smelled almost right. He remembered the first wave of heat, the heaviness in his limbs, the way his thoughts slipped like water through his fists.

He was drugged by his so called childhood friend who's obsessed with having him touch her. His intensions was to turn her down even though he intentionally drank the spiked drink.

Then he remembered a second face—or not a face, a presence. A body moving into the room like a mistake that wanted to happen. Lips that tasted like trouble. Fingers that grabbed his wrist and pulled him down, refused to let go, turned a poisoned night into something he could feel in his bones.

He scanned the bed.

Empty now.

The imprint of a smaller body still dented the sheet. A faint smear of lipstick stained the pillowcase and she sheets were also stained with blood. A dark hair—hers, not his—curled near the edge of the mattress.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t swear. His jaw just tightened.

Someone had kissed him awake. Someone had left before sunrise.

He stood and walked to the window. The city looked back, bright and busy and not at all interested in his problems. He checked himself for the details he trusted more than memory: a scratch on his shoulder, a bruise on his hip, the ache he only felt after he forgot to stay in control.

It was real. All of it. And she was a virgin on top of it all.

He should be angry. He was angry. But under the anger was a pull he hated. Whoever she was, she had gotten under his skin without leaving a name behind.

He picked up his phone from the nightstand and called a number. The line clicked after one ring.

“Sir?” a voice said. Calm. Professional.

“Rafe,” Aiden said. “I need footage. Every camera from the hotel hallways. Floor eighteen.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Rafe,” he added, rubbing at the back of his neck, “no leaks. Not a word. If anyone asks, it’s a routine security sweep.”

“Understood.”

Aiden ended the call and stared at the black screen for a long second. He placed the phone face down, as if it could bite.

He looked around the room again, searching for anything she had left. Nothing obvious. No earring under the chair. No note. No scent that wasn’t already in the air. Only memory, and even that was shredded at the edges.

He exhaled once, slow and deep.

“Who are you?” he asked a slow but deadly smirk spreading across his lips.

ONE WEEK LATER~

The week that followed was quiet. Too quiet.

Salma spent most of her days trapped in Sophia’s small apartment, the curtains drawn against the world outside. The city bustled beyond the thin walls, but for her, life had shrunk into a single living room, a borrowed couch, and endless hours of silence.

She scrolled through her phone for distraction, thumbing past old photos, fashion campaigns, and unread messages from modeling colleagues who buzzed with fake concern. Her notifications lit up constantly, yet she never posted, never replied. She muted everyone. The silence was strange, but she welcomed it.

It was easier to vanish than to face the world.

Sophia, however, was restless. That afternoon, the sun painted long streaks of light across the dusty floorboards, and Sophia sat curled up across from her on the couch. She kept biting her nails until her fingers looked raw, her face pale and tight with something unsaid. Her foot tapped nervously against the rug.

Salma finally frowned. “What is it? You’ve been twitching for hours.”

Sophia’s eyes darted away, then back again, as if she were forcing herself. And then the words slipped out like poison.

“I’m pregnant.”

The silence that followed was so sharp it cut the air.

Salma blinked, her throat tightening. She almost thought she misheard.

“Pregnant?” she raised a brow.

Sophia nodded stiffly, her arms wrapping around her stomach as if she could shield herself from her own confession.

“Yes. For that useless man ex husband of mine,” Her voice dripped with venom.

“God, I hate him. I hate that I’m tied to him now. Do you know what it feels like to carry something that connects you forever to a mistake?”

"I thought you and Michael ended things a yeah ago. How? How did you get pregnant?" Salma raised a brow.

"Ehn...well same night of your wedding I went to his place and we hooked up." Sophia said lowering her gaze in guilt.

Salma’s chest constricted. For a second, she couldn’t breathe. She reached across the couch, placing her hand gently over Sophia’s trembling ones.

“I know he hasn't been kind to you," she said softly. “But… a baby is still a blessing. Congratulations.”

The word left her lips before she could stop it.

Sophia’s eyes snapped up, furious.

“Congratulations?” she repeated, pulling her hand away as though burned.

“Don’t you dare make this sound like some gift, Salma. You don’t know what it’s like to look in the mirror and see chains you can never break. You’re free. You always get to choose. Unlike me—” her voice cracked, sharp and bitter, “I’m stuck carrying his blood.”

Salma recoiled, stunned. The anger in Sophia’s eyes didn’t belong to the gentle friend who once nursed her after sleepless nights or whispered encouragement before runway shows. This was someone darker, heavier.

But before Salma could respond, a sharp knock rattled the door.

Sophia frowned. “Who could that be?”

Salma’s stomach dropped. No one knew she was here. She rose slowly, dread prickling down her spine, and cracked the door open.

Two men in black suits filled the doorway. Their cold eyes met hers.

“Miss Rodriguez?” one said.

Her breath hitched. She knew those faces. Her father’s men.

“No,” she whispered, backing away. “Not here—”

But they didn’t wait. Rough hands closed around her arms, firm and unyielding.

“Your father requests your presence.”

“Let me go!” She struggled, panic flooding her chest. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

Her cries were useless. They dragged her down the stairs as neighbors peeked from doors, whispering. Sophia stood frozen in the living room, her pale face unreadable.

Within minutes, Salma was shoved into a black car, the windows tinted, her wrists aching from their grip.

MALIBU_THE RODRIGUEZ MANSION~

The Rodriguez mansion was enormous, sitting on a hill that overlooked the city. Its white stone walls gleamed in the sun, and tall iron gates guarded the entrance. From the street, it looked untouchable, a house built to impress and to show power.

The driveway was wide and long, lined with palm trees, and luxury cars were always parked neatly near poo poo the front. The garden was perfect, trimmed hedges and fountains that sparkled in the light. Every corner was clean, every detail polished.

Inside, the rooms were large and full of expensive furniture. Crystal chandeliers hung from high ceilings, throwing light across marble floors. Paintings and sculptures filled the walls, each one chosen to show taste and wealth. The furniture was rich and heavy, made of dark wood and soft leather, all carefully arranged.

The study was massive, with shelves full of books and awards, a desk big enough to hold meetings with powerful men. The smell of polished wood and leather filled the air. Every room had a sense of control, of money, of authority.

Even the little things showed power: servants moved quietly through the halls, doors opened automatically, and cameras watched every corner. The mansion wasn’t just a home—it was a statement.

To step inside was to remember who ruled here. Mr. Rodriguez’s wealth wasn’t just in money. It was in the way the house demanded respect, in the way it made everyone feel small, and in the air of power that seemed to hang in every room.

The mansion loomed as the car pulled into the driveway. The sight of it—the tall gates, the polished marble, the servants pretending not to stare—filled Salma with a bitter ache. It wasn’t home. It had never been home.

Inside the study, the air felt heavy with smoke and fury.

Mr. Rodriguez stood by the fireplace, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes stormy.

“Do you know the shame you’ve brought upon me, Salma?” His voice thundered against the walls.

“Running away from your marriage like some cheap street girl? Do you know how much I lost to Lukas ?”

Salma forced herself to stand tall, though her knees shook. “I will not marry him, Papa. I’d rather live on the streets than—”