SHADOWS IN HIS ARMS

The One-Night Mistake

HARTLEY’S POV



The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the smell. Not the usual stale perfume clinging to my sheets or the faint detergent of my tiny apartment, but something richer, sharper, expensive in a way that made my nose twitch. My eyes darted upward, and the ceiling above me was way too high, too polished, and beautifully designed. My stomach dropped. This wasn’t my bed.

That realization hit me about the same time I looked up at the ceiling, clutching the sheet to my chest, groaning as the cold air brushed across my bare skin

“Oh no,” I groaned, pulling the sheet higher. “No, no, no, no, no.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to steady myself, but it only made the memories slam into me harder.

Lily dragging me into The Vesper Lounge, that ridiculous playlist pounding so hard I felt it in my teeth. Tequila shots that burned all the way down, laughter so wild it turned into snorting. And then—him.

Tall. Too tall. Serious in a way that shouldn’t have been attractive, but somehow was. Black eyes as obsidian and watching me like he already knew how I ended.

And now… here I was. In his bed.

A quiet sound—fabric shifting—made me freeze. My eyes flew across the room, and there he was.

Mr. Mysterious from the bar, no longer leaning lazily against the counter with that wolfish smirk—except now he looked like he belonged in a cologne ad, freshly pressed and annoyingly perfect, not a single wrinkle on his shirt.

“Morning, you're awake”

he said smoothly, as if this were routine, as if waking up with strangers was just another Tuesday. His tone alone made me feel ten years younger, completely unprepared, especially wrapped in nothing but his sheet.

And then he smirked. “You snore like someone’s trying to start a lawnmower.”

I wanted the mattress to open up and swallow me whole. “Oh my God.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head, studying me like I was more amusing than annoying.

“That’s about what you said last night too. Twice. Possibly three times. I lost count after your second tequila.”

Heat climbed up my neck. “I—I think I made a mistake,” I stammered, tugging the sheet tighter like it could shield me from his gaze.

One dark brow lifted. “You think?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, even though my stomach was a mess of panic.

“We didn’t…. did we?”

He took his time, strolling to the side table, lifting a glass of amber liquid as though it were nine at night instead of whatever ungodly hour it was. He sipped it leisurely, gaze dragging toward the curve of my bare shoulder peeking from the sheet.

“We did,” he said finally, like he was commenting on the weather.

“Repeatedly. You were very persuasive. A fierce little thing when provoked.”

My mouth went dry. “I don’t—I don’t do this. Ever. I don’t know what happened—”

“You drank.” He leaned against the wall, infuriatingly calm. “You danced. And you kissed me first, by the way.”

I gawked at him. “I did not—”

“You did.” His lips curved, sharp and cruel, like he was enjoying every second of my misery.

“Then you asked if we could come here. Your exact words were: ‘If you’re going to stare at me like that, at least make it worth my time.’”

I buried my face in my hands and muttered into my palms, “Oh, God.”

He chuckled, low and satisfied. Clearly, my humiliation was his morning entertainment.

“You were… unexpected,” he said after a moment, voice dropping just slightly.

“Most women in my world are calculated. You were honest. Clumsy. Real.”

“That’s not comforting,” I snapped, glaring at him from behind the safety of my sheet.

He pushed off the wall, moving with the kind of deliberate grace that screamed predator circling prey. My pulse kicked.

“Tell me, Hartley,” he said softly, almost dangerously, “do you always run away the morning after?”

My eyes snapped up. “How do you know my name?”

“I have my ways.”

I blinked. “That’s… disturbing.”

He smiled, wolfish. “Relax. You gave me your name after your third drink. Right after you slapped a man for calling you ‘baby girl.’ Look, I’m not stalking you.”

A pause. “Not yet.”

“Yet?” My voice cracked, and I scrambled to locate my clothes. Of course they weren’t scattered in a drunken mess—no, they were folded neatly on a chair, like he’d orchestrated the whole thing. Which made it worse.

He leaned on the armrest, watching me slip into my dress like I was performing for him. “Tell me,” he said, his tone demanding without even trying. “What do you do when you’re not climbing into strangers’ beds?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Answer the question.”

I swallowed. “I work as an assistant. Fashion buyer. Small firm in Midtown.”

“That’s disappointing.”

I froze mid-shoelace. “Excuse me?”

“You could be doing better.” His voice was calm, assured, and maddening.

I shot him a glare. “You don’t know me.”

“Oh, but I will.” The way he said it—smooth, certain, laced with a promise I didn’t want—sent a shiver down my spine.

Minutes later, I followed him into the kind of kitchen you only see in glossy magazines. White marble, minimalist everything, not a crumb out of place. He handed me a cup of coffee that tasted so rich it probably cost more than my weekly grocery bill.

“Would you like a job, Hartley?” he asked casually, like he was offering me sugar instead of dropping a grenade.

I nearly choked. “From you? You want a repeat performance or what? Do you think I’d work for the man I just accidentally slept with?”

His gaze sharpened, the playful edge vanishing.

“It wasn’t an accident. You needed something. I saw it in your eyes—desperation. And I’m very good at giving people what they need… for a price.”

A chill crawled down my spine. I stepped back, clutching the mug like a shield.

“I’m not for sale.”

“Everyone’s for sale.” He said it like it was fact, unshakable.

“You’ll figure that out soon enough.”

Then he reached into his blazer pocket and held out a business card. White, textured, heavy enough to feel like a weapon and placed it in my hand.

**Declan Westcott, CEO – Blackwood International.**

My fingers trembled as I read it. I’d heard that name before, whispered like a curse in the business world. He was that Declan Westcott?

“You’re Declan Westcott?” My voice sounded faint.

His lips curved. “Surprised?”

I blinked at him. “I thought you’d be older. Or more… evil-looking.”

“I get that a lot,” he said with a wink. “Give me time.”

“You’ll call me,” he said, voice like velvet. Commanding.

I shook my head, stuffing the card in my purse like it might burn me if I held it too long.

“Why would I ever call you?”

“Because something’s about to happen in your life,” he said smoothly, “that will give you no choice.”

I bolted to the elevator before he could say another word.

—----

Four hours later, my phone rang. The hospital. Again. This time, bad news, another bill.

My brother’s condition had worsened, and they couldn’t continue his treatment without payment.

I didn’t even need to hear the words before the knot in my stomach twisted into something unbearable. But the nurse’s voice still broke me.

“Miss Sinclair,” she said urgently, “your brother’s vitals have dropped again. We need to discuss transferring him to extended care—and coverage options.”

Coverage. Code for money. More money I didn’t have.

My voice sounded hollow in my own ears. “I’ll be there.”

When I hung up, my hands were shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone.

That damn business card sat in my lap, white and pristine,

like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

Declan Westcott.

Not just a mistake. Not just a stranger.

He might be the only chance I had left.