Chapter 6
1416 Words
Elena's POV
The first thing I noticed was silence. It stretched across my apartment like a fog, heavy, slow, unrelenting. The kind of silence that pressed on your chest and made every thought echo too loud in your own head.
My body felt leaden. My head throbbed. And my phone lay face-down on the nightstand where I'd thrown it hours ago, buzzing with notifications I couldn't bring myself to check.
I didn't move. I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, watching dust particles float lazily through the morning light. My dress from last night was wrapped over the chair, rumpled and abandoned. My heels lay scattered on the rug where I'd kicked them off in a daze.
And his scent, that stranger's cologne, still clung to my sheets, stubborn and intoxicating.
The stranger.
The man I'd thought was Andre. The man whose hands had mapped every inch of my skin. The man whose name I still didn't know.
Heat crept up my neck at the memory. The weight of him. The taste of him. The way I'd pulled him closer even as some distant part of me whispered, 'This is wrong.' The way my body had given itself to him without permission, without logic, without shame.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to suffocate the images playing behind my eyelids.
"Get it together, Elena," I muttered.
But getting it together was impossible when I could still feel the ghost of his touch burning against my skin.
My phone buzzed again—a persistent, angry vibration that wouldn't be ignored.
With a shaky breath, I finally reached for it.
The screen lit up like a firework display. Hundreds of notifications. i********:, Twitter, and texts from people I hadn't spoken to in months. My stomach twisted as I opened i********:, dread pooling in my chest.
The first post stopped my breath.
It was us. Me and him. Outside the restaurant, his hand on the small of my back, my face turned up toward his, caught mid-laugh at something he'd said. The golden hour lighting made us look like something out of a romance film—intimate, electric, inevitable.
The caption read, 'Who is Elena Park's mystery man?
Three million likes. Forty-two thousand comments.
I scrolled through them, my pulse quickening with each word.
"She upgraded after Paris."
"That's definitely a billionaire. Look at that car."
"Elena said I'm done with broke boys."
My thumb hovered over the screen, frozen. They thought I was dating him. They thought this was real. They thought—
My phone rang, Taylor's name flashing across the chaos.
I answered, my voice coming out as a hoarse rasp. "I saw."
"Good morning to you too, superstar," Taylor said, but his usual cheerfulness was strained. "Please tell me that was him.”
I closed my eyes. "No.
Silence stretched between us—thick, heavy, damning.
"Elena." His voice dropped, losing all its lightness. "Please tell me you're joking."
"I wish I was." I sat up, the sheets pooling around my waist. "I thought he was Andre. I thought—" My voice cracked. "The message came through this morning. From the app. The real Andre. Apologizing for not showing up."
"Jesus Christ" Taylor exhaled sharply. "So you're telling me you're trending worldwide in photos with a man whose name you don't even know?"
"Yes."
"A man you spent the night with?"
My silence answered for me.
"Elena." His voice turned razor-sharp. "Do you understand what this means? If he sells this story, if he's some psycho with an agenda, if the press digs into this and finds out you have no idea who he is—this could destroy everything we've rebuilt. After Paris, after all that work—"
"I know!" The words burst out of me, raw and desperate. "You think I don't know? You think I'm not terrified? I can't even remember his face clearly. Just—" I swallowed hard. "Just the way he looked at me. Like he knew exactly what he was doing."
Taylor was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted—still concerned, but calculating. "Okay. Okay, we can work with this. The photos are good. The engagement is insane. Coffee Brand already called about extending your contract. As long as this mystery man doesn't become a problem, we can spin this."
"How?" I laughed bitterly. "How do we spin me sleeping with a stranger?"
"We don't," he said simply. "Because nobody knows that part. What they see is a gorgeous woman on a date with a handsome, wealthy-looking man. That's the story. That's what we control."
I pressed my fingers against my temple. "And when they ask who he is?"
"You're keeping your personal life private. You're focusing on your career. You're not ready to comment." He paused. "But Elena, we need to know who he is. For damage control if nothing else."
"I know." My gaze drifted to the app notification I'd been avoiding all morning. Andre's message glowed on the screen like an accusation.
I'm sorry I didn't show up. Something came up. Can I make it up to you? This weekend?
"He wants to meet this weekend," I said quietly. "Andre. The real one."
"Too far," Taylor said immediately. "By the weekend, the internet will have invented five different versions of your love life. Tell him you're free tomorrow."
"Why would I—"
"Because you need to see his face." Taylor's voice gentled, understanding creeping in. "You need to know he's not the stranger. That's what this is about, isn't it? You need to know it wasn't some sick game."
My throat tightened. He was right. God, he was right.
The thought had been circling my mind all morning like a vulture—what if they were the same person? What if Andre had been there all along, watching, playing some twisted prank? What if I'd been that naive, that blind?
I needed to see his face. I needed to know they were different people. I needed proof that I hadn't completely lost my mind.
"Alright," I whispered. "I'll message him."
"Good." Taylor's voice brightened slightly. "And Elena?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time you go viral, can it be for a product launch? My blood pressure can't take this before breakfast."
Despite everything, I laughed, soft and broken, but real. "No promises."
"Figures. Get some rest. You sound wrecked."
The line went dead.
I stared at Andre's message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. My heart hammered against my ribs as I typed slowly, carefully.
There's no need to wait till the weekend. If we're doing this, let's do it tomorrow.
I read it three times before pressing send.
The whoosh of the message felt louder than it should have—final, irrevocable, terrifying.
I set the phone down and pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. Outside, the city hummed with life, cars honking, people shouting, the world spinning on like nothing had changed.
But everything had changed.
I'd given myself to a stranger. I'd let him touch me, taste me, unravel me completely. And now I was about to meet the man I was supposed to have met, praying his face would be different. Praying I could finally breathe again.
My gaze drifted to the window, to the sunlight painting everything in shades of gold.
What if it's him? A small voice whispered. What if you walk into that restaurant tomorrow and see those same dark eyes, that same devastating smile?
My stomach twisted with something that felt dangerously close to hope.
No. I shook my head firmly. It wouldn't be him. It couldn't be him. That would be too cruel, even for the universe that had watched my boyfriend propose to my best friend in Paris.
Tomorrow, I'd see a different face. A stranger's face. And I could finally put this nightmare to rest.
And if by some sick twist of fate Andre walked in with those same eyes and that same smile—if the universe was playing the cruellest joke of all—then at least I'd know.
At least I'd stop feeling like I was losing my mind.
I took a deep breath and stood, letting the sheets fall away. My reflection caught in the mirror across the room—rumpled, exhausted, but still standing.
For the first time that morning, I didn't feel just exhausted.
I felt something sharper, something dangerous.
I felt ready.
- Writer
