The Billionaire who chose me

Comfort In The Arms Of A Stranger

Chapter Three

SEBASTIAN:

I woke before the sun fully claimed the room.

Habit. Years of early flights, late nights, and decisions made before dawn had trained my body to rise before regret could catch up. The city outside the window was still quiet, suspended between darkness and movement.

She was still asleep.

Curled slightly toward me, lashes resting against her cheeks, her breathing uneven—the way it gets after too much alcohol and too many emotions pressed into one night.

Aria.

The name surfaced uninvited.

I watched her longer than I should have. Women woke up beside me often enough—different cities, different hotels, different faces blurred by routine. It was always clean. Controlled. Temporary.

This wasn’t that.

The soft crease between her brows even in sleep told me she hadn’t escaped last night’s storm. Whatever she’d been running from hadn’t vanished. It had just quieted. And that bothered me more than it should have.

I shifted, careful not to wake her, and reached for my phone. Nothing. No emergencies, no calls. The world could wait.

Her eyelashes fluttered open. Confusion first, then realization—and regret.

“Oh my God… damn it,” she muttered, eyes scanning the room as if it might suddenly make sense.

“If you’re looking for your dress, don’t bother,” I said lightly.

“What? What did you do with my clothes?” She clutched the blanket to herself, cheeks flushing.

“I ordered something new for you. Comfortable. You won’t want to walk around in a dinner gown in broad daylight, right?”

Her lips parted, caught between embarrassment and disbelief. She didn’t move, just adjusted the blanket, tiny hints of hesitation flickering in every gesture.

I let her have her space, even as part of me wanted to stay and watch her. To see her move, laugh, curse me silently. Anything but leave. But I didn’t. I respected the distance she needed.

She went into the bathroom to change, and I stayed by the window, watching the city wake slowly.

When she emerged, she wore something simple, soft, yet somehow radiant. Her hair still tangled from sleep, her eyes glossy, the tiniest flush of vulnerability lingering on her cheeks.

I caught her glance at me, hesitant. Her lips pressed into a thin line, the blush betraying her internal war—regret, shame, attraction, confusion.

And I loved it.

She shook her head as if to clear it, adjusting her shirt nervously, and I saw the way she hesitated near the door. She wasn’t ready to face the world outside—or me.

I smiled, leaning against the counter. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her gaze flicked to mine, then away. I knew she wanted to say something, apologize, explain herself—but the words didn’t come. Not yet.

The silence between us wasn’t empty. It was full—of tension, curiosity, and a hint of desire that hadn’t faded with daylight.

She looked like she wanted to hate me for what had happened. But I could see it in her eyes: she didn’t. Not entirely.

And that thought… it made me want to test the boundaries a little further.

Because one night had been enough to know she mattered. Not just to me, but to the way I wanted things I usually never wanted.

I didn’t need to tell her that yet. Let her stew in her regret. Let her wonder.

“Hmmm… thank you for this,” she murmured, avoiding my gaze.

“You’re welcome,” I replied easily.

She cleared her throat, biting her lip as if holding something back.

“And… erhm… I’m not always like this,” she admitted, her fingers nervously fidgeting with her nails.

“Like what?” I asked, feigning ignorance, though I already knew.

“You know… sleeping around with strangers,” she said, the words tumbling out in a rush, a flustered blush spreading across her cheeks.

“Ooh, that, I know you don't” I said, letting a low smile tug at my lips. Her gaze flicked up at me, fleeting relief brushing her features.

“Really? Why…? I mean, okay. Thank you, and I apologize for all this. I hope whatever happened… stays between us,” she stammered, desperate to put distance between us.

A smile curved my lips. She was curious, cautious, embarrassed, but honest. That was rare. That was… interesting. I wanted to know more.

“If you say so,” I replied lightly, watching her try to regain composure.

She exhaled, visibly attempting to collect herself. “Okay, then. I really do hope it ends here,” she said, bowing slightly before walking toward the door.

For a fleeting moment, I wanted to stop her. To say something that might tie her to this morning—or to me—but I held back. Let it end… if it truly ended here.

The day outside would arrive soon, carrying its usual chaos and demands. And perhaps it was best to move along with it.

But for some reason, my mind didn’t leave her behind. Not yet.

I watched her disappear down the hall, her movements hesitant, careful, almost like she was stepping back into a world that didn’t know she existed last night. And yet, she had left a mark. A trace. Something stubborn and unpredictable, like a fire that refused to be ignored.

I should feel indifferent. That’s what I normally did. One night. Forget it. Move on. Another woman, another city, another morning. Routine. Predictable. Clean. Controlled. Temporary.

But she wasn’t temporary. Not in the way she mattered. Not in the way she made my chest tighten just by existing in my periphery.

The truth was uncomfortable. Dangerous. Exciting. And it made me consider things I rarely allowed myself to consider—things I told myself I didn’t want.

I turned toward the window, letting the city’s morning light flood the room, and imagined her face again. The way she’d averted her eyes, her lips trembling slightly as she tried to speak. The mixture of vulnerability and fire… the tension that buzzed around her like static electricity.

And damn it, I wanted to see it again.

I needed to know if she felt it too. Or if she would bury it beneath apologies and excuses and the kind of denial that most people hid behind.

I didn’t know her yet. And maybe I never would. But last night was enough to prove one thing: she wasn’t like the others.

The kind of attraction she sparked? Rare. Dangerous. Tempting.

I would let her leave now, let her retreat into her regrets and rationalizations. Let her believe this was a one-time thing. Let her think she could forget.

But I knew better.

I would remember.

And deep down, I suspected she would too.