Chapter Seven: Cold Morning
813 Words
Chapter Seven: Cold Morning
Rachel woke up with her head pounding and her mouth dry. The taste of alcohol still lingered at the back of her throat, and her limbs felt heavy as if she’d run a marathon in her sleep. She groaned, shifting slightly, hoping to find relief from the pain splitting across her temples.
That’s when she felt it—the unfamiliar softness of expensive sheets, the scent of cologne that wasn’t hers, and the warmth of a body next to her.
Her eyes snapped open.
She turned slowly, dread pooling in her stomach like a heavy stone.
There he was.
Nathaniel Kingsley.
Her boss.
Sleeping beside her, half-covered by the sheets, his bare chest rising and falling in a deep, peaceful rhythm.
Rachel sat up so quickly that the world spun. Her head throbbed harder, but it didn’t matter. The images started coming back—not fully, not clearly—but flashes of skin, of hands, of heat. Of kisses that tasted like whiskey and desire.
"Oh my God," she whispered, covering her mouth.
What did I do?
She wanted to believe it was just a dream. That somehow her imagination had gone rogue. But the ache in her muscles, the bruises blooming on her neck, and the undeniable evidence of what had happened around her—all of it confirmed the worst.
She had slept with her boss.
The cold-blooded, stone-faced, utterly off-limits Nathaniel Kingsley.
She slipped out of the bed as quietly as she could, gathered her dress, her shoes, her dignity, and tiptoed out of the room, not sparing him another glance.
By the time she reached her tiny apartment, she was already tearing into herself.
"You stupid, stupid girl," she muttered, pacing around the room. "You were drunk. That’s not an excuse. What the hell were you thinking?"
She stood in front of the mirror, trying to recognize the woman staring back. Disheveled. Guilty. Confused.
Her phone rang, pulling her out of her self-loathing spiral. Her heart throb like it was in a race. Is it her boss? But thank god it was her mother.
“Ma?” she answered.
Her mother’s voice was shaky. “Anak, si Papa mo…. sinugod sa hospital. Na aksidente raw sa kotse, Nak, Rachel uwi ka muna please…hindi kaya ni Mama to..ooperahan daw si Papa mo” (Rachel, your Dad….he was rushed to the hospital. He got in a car accident, Rachel, Rachel can you please come home I can't do this alone) The words struck her like a slap. Her father…in the hospital…. accident?
“I’m coming home,” Rachel said immediately. “I’ll be on the next flight.”
Without hesitation, she opened her laptop and started filing a one-month leave request. She doesn't know how bad her fathers condition is but she wants to be there at least while he is in the hospital. Her fingers trembled as she typed out the message to Nathaniel. Every word felt awkward, like it was soaked in the memory of what they’d done just hours before.
She printed it out and brought it to the office. Her heart raced the entire way there.
When she stepped inside his office, he was sitting behind his desk, as calm and composed as ever. Not a hint of what had transpired showed on his face. His expression was as unreadable as a closed book.
“Mr. Kingsley,” she said, her voice slightly shaky. “I need to file a leave. There’s been a family emergency. My father… he’s undergoing surgery.”
He looked at the paper, took it, and signed without a word.
No hesitation. No questions. No comments.
He handed it back and simply said, “You May leave.”
Rachel stood there for a moment, stunned.
That was it?
No mention of last night. No awkward conversation. No sign that he even remembered.
She left his office with her chest tight, her thoughts racing.
Was that all she was to him? Just another notch? A mistake easily ignored?
Maybe I am just another one-night stand, she thought bitterly. Maybe that’s how he operates—sleep with a secretary, sign the papers, and move on.
The idea dug into her like a thorn. She hated that it hurt. She hated that she even cared.
But what she didn’t know—what she couldn’t have seen—was the flicker of surprise in Nathaniel’s eyes the moment he read the word “leave.”
He had expected something else.
A demand.
An accusation.
A price.
He had dealt with it before—secretaries who had used moments of vulnerability to manipulate him. Who played the game of intimacy like a contract negotiation.
But Rachel didn’t ask for anything. Not a raise. Not compensation. Not even an explanation.
She simply asked to go.
And that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
- Writer
