Chapter 11: Morning After..(II)
719 Words
Tracy Rsman’s POV
Morning came in loud.
The light was disrespectful.
The air was cold.
My head felt like it was loading on 2G.
And somehow—somehow—being next to him didn’t feel wrong.
Which was absurd. Because he was still a stranger. A dangerously beautiful one. A man who had rearranged my internal furniture in one night and left no instruction manual behind.
I stared at the ceiling, grounding myself. Breathing. Counting. Reminding myself I was still Tracy. Still real. Still in control.
I needed to talk.
If I didn’t turn this into words, it would turn into panic.
“Okay,” I said quietly, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near fragile. “So… family summary. We’re four. I’ve got a brother—Jason—one year younger and professionally annoying. My mom’s a doctor. My dad runs a car company. He’s kind of… unreal. In a good way.”
I left out the fractures. The silence. The move. The parts that still ached when I poked them.
“So,” I continued, forcing a breath, “you don’t have to worry about drama. No angry parents. No lawsuits. No surprise appearances with pitchforks. This was just… a night, right?”
He turned fully toward me.
“Who said it was just one night?”
Yeah.
That sentence rewired something in my spine.
Before I could respond, his phone rang—sharp, businesslike, the sound of power being summoned. He spoke in clipped tones about departments, delays, decisions. The kind of call that reminded you this man didn’t just exist—he ran things.
I glanced at the clock.
5:00 a.m.
Why was morning already doing the most?
When he ended the call, he ordered breakfast like it was muscle memory—bacon, eggs, the works—and handed me painkillers with water, no questions asked. Efficient. Gentle. Familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
He didn’t hover.
He didn’t disappear.
He just… handled things.
While I ate slowly, he changed into an immaculate suit—tailored, expensive, unfairly attractive. I watched. Obviously. I’m human, not a saint.
Sleep tugged at me again, heavy and inevitable.
He brushed my hair back before leaving—soft, careful, like he knew I was breakable right now.
As the door closed, I heard him speak to someone outside.
“Keep an eye on her. Make sure she’s okay.”
Her.
Not a name. Not a label. Just… concern.
Then he was gone.
Later..
Oh.
Oh no.
My body had beef with me.
Everything below my waist filed a formal complaint. Walking felt like betrayal. Standing felt illegal. I moved like a woman who had survived something intense and hadn’t fully unpacked it yet.
I made it to the bathroom and soaked until time lost meaning—until the water quieted the noise in my muscles and my mind stopped replaying the night in fractured flashes.
School?
Absolutely not. The universe would have to wait.
When I stepped back into the room, wrapped in a robe and mildly reborn—
I noticed my clothes were gone.
All of them.
Not misplaced.
Not folded.
Gone.
Memory clicked. Heat. Urgency. Hands. Fabric sacrificed to the moment.
I stared at the carpet like it owed me an apology.
Fine.
New plan.
I raided his closet—sweats, a shirt, pants that felt illegally soft—and dressed like a woman reclaiming autonomy one cotton fiber at a time. I grabbed my purse, my keys, whatever dignity I could locate, and limped to the elevator.
Downstairs, the club was dead. Chairs stacked. Floors clean. Like nothing had happened.
Like the night hadn’t cracked me open.
I got into my car and sat there for a full minute, engine off, brain loud.
What did I just do?
Who was he to me now?
And why didn’t it feel like a mistake—just… unfinished?
Thirty minutes later, I pulled into my driveway.
I barely made it through the door before the air shifted.
Arms crossed.
Eyes sharp.
Presence undeniable.
My mother.
Alive. Alert. Furious.
“Mama…?” I whispered.
Yeah.
This was not a drill.
Holy Mother of everything sacred—
Please let this be a dream.
Or a glitch.
Or a mercy blackout.
Because if not?
I was absolutely, catastrophically screwed.
- Writer
