The CEO’s one night stand

The bass pulsed like a second heartbeat through the crowded club. Nyla gripped her phone so tightly her knuckles turned white, the screen’s glow illuminating the tears she refused to shed. The images were brutal. Her boyfriend of two years on one knee, smiling up at an elegant woman in a red dress. She had seen the pictures all over i********: two hours ago. But whenever her friends sent her new links to the posts, her stomach twisted. It felt like going over it over and over again. The woman in front of him had her hands over her mouth. Her long dark hair sat perfectly laid over the beautiful red dress she wore. Tears already on her cheeks. Max’s face was tilted up, smiling that rare, unguarded smile Nyla used to think was only hers. In his hand, a small black box was open. Something glittered inside. The caption mentioned was completely different from what he had told her. Max was supposed to be in Madrid finalizing a merger. Instead, he was in Paris, offering forever to someone else while Nyla had been playing the loyal girlfriend back home, sleeping on her future and believing every excuse he always gave her. Her chest felt hollow as she swiped to the second photo. The ring was already on the woman’s finger. Max was standing now, arms around her, forehead pressed to hers like the world had just narrowed to the two of them. The Eiffel tower glittered behind them. A street musician’s violin case sat open a few meters away, coins catching the light. Then in the third photo, they were already kissing deeply. The kind of kiss that said this is forever. Nyla’s heart slammed against her ribs so hard she felt it in her teeth. The phone trembled in her hand. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand twice. The images didn’t change. Max was supposed to be in Madrid. He had texted her six hours ago: Just landed. Heading straight to the hotel. Merger meetings start at eight. Love you. Sleep well. Her pulse was a frantic, sick drumbeat in her ears. She opened their chat. Scrolled and found the last message. The location pin he had sent earlier that evening: Madrid city center. She stared at the pin until her vision blurred. Then she opened the photos again. The timestamp on the first one was 11:42 p.m. Paris time. Two hours and thirty-five minutes after Max claimed he was already in bed in Madrid, exhausted from travel. Nyla’s stomach turned over. Cold sweat prickled down her spine. She zoomed in on the second photo until Max’s face filled the screen. That smile. The one he gave her when he said I’m all in. The one he wore the night he told her he wanted forever. He was wearing the watch she gave him for his birthday. The same one he never took off. A soft, broken sound escaped her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth before it could become a sob. The phone slipped, nearly fell. She caught it, fingers shaking so hard the screen jumped. Across the city, thirty-seven floors above the quiet streets, Alex Gavin stood barefoot in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, a crystal tumbler of untouched whiskey dangling from his fingers. The city lights blurred beneath him like scattered diamonds, but he barely saw them. His phone still glowed on the counter behind him, the last message from Isla sitting open like a wound. I’m done, Alex. For real this time. Don’t call. Don’t text. Don’t send flowers. Just… stop. Another breakup. The fourth in eleven months. Ale exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight. The glass in his hand remained perfectly still. He never rattled or raised his voice. He never let the world see the c***k. At thirty-one, Alex Gavin was the kind of man other men studied. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of lean, powerful frame that looked equally at home in a tailored Tom Ford suit or nothing at all. He had sharp black hair, always slightly tousled like he’d just run a hand through it after closing a billion-dollar deal. He had beautiful blue eyes, capable of making people forget what they were about to say. A strong well defined jawline and a mouth that rarely smiled. Isla had always been chaos wrapped in silk. She was beautiful and unpredictable. She would leave him in dramatic, tear-stained messages, only to reappear weeks later with soft apologies and softer hands. Every time, Alex told himself he wouldn’t take her back. Every time, he did. This message felt different, it felt sharper and final. He set the glass down without drinking. His reflection stared back at him in the dark glass flawless suit still on from the late board meeting. His toe was loosened and his expression carved from stone. The man the business world called ruthless. The man the tabloids called the most eligible bachelor of NYC. The man who could buy anything except, apparently, loyalty. Isla was delusional. How dare she break things with him? He was Vogue's most eligible bachelor in the whole of NYC. The ideal man for every woman. His fingers curled. She was ridiculous. If she wanted more attention, she could have asked. If she wanted gifts, she had them. If she wanted security, she had everything. What else was there? What did women really want? She was delusional, he thought as he nipped on his bottom lip and tapped his feet impatiently on the ground to contain his anger. His phone lit up again. Not a message from Isla this time. A news alert he was tagged on. Then another. Then three more in rapid succession, the screen flooding with red notification banners. Alex’s brow furrowed. He crossed the room in three long strides and snatched the phone off the counter. The first headline hit him like a physical blow. ALEX GAVIN AND ISLA MONTCLAIR ENGAGED — NYC’S MOST ELIGIBLE BACHELOR OFFICIALLY OFF THE MARKET His stomach dropped. He scrolled, the following headlines were devastating. Sources even claimed he proposed with a 12-carat Asscher-cut diamond. Alex’s grip tightened until the edges of the phone dug into his palm. His pulse, usually steady under pressure that would break other men, began to hammer. Isla had just told him it was over. Final. No calls. No texts. No explanation of any kind. And yet the entire city—every gossip site, every fashion blog, every idle comment section—was already calling her Mrs. Gavin. The name that belonged to him. The name that opened doors money alone could not. The name women had tried for years to claim. And she was wearing it like a trophy she hadn’t even earned.