Elara's POV
The stranger is walking toward me.
My heart stops. After the worst night of my life—after Trevor, after Celeste, after my father—this beautiful man with dark eyes is crossing the airport terminal like he's drawn to me by some invisible string.
"Bad night for flying," he says when he reaches me. His voice is deep and smooth, like expensive whiskey.
I laugh, but it comes out broken and bitter. "Bad night for everything."
He sits down next to me without asking. Close enough that I can smell his cologne—something woodsy and clean. Up close, he's even more handsome. Strong jaw. Perfect lips. Eyes that look like they've seen pain too.
"Want to talk about it?" he asks.
I should say no. I should tell him to leave me alone. But something about him feels safe. Like maybe, just for a moment, I don't have to be strong.
"My fiancé cheated on me," I hear myself say. "With my stepsister. I caught them in bed together. Both naked. At my own engagement party."
His eyes widen. "Jesus."
"And then my father—" My voice cracks. "My father said it was my fault. That I couldn't keep Trevor interested. He fired me and gave my job to Celeste. He chose her over me. His own daughter."
The stranger's jaw tightens. "That's not a father. That's a coward."
Something about the way he says it—angry, protective, like he actually cares—makes me start crying again. But these tears feel different. Cleaner, somehow.
"I'm sorry," I sob, wiping my face. "I don't even know you. I shouldn't dump all this on you."
"Sometimes strangers are easier to talk to," he says softly. "No judgment. No history. Just... honesty."
I look at him through my tears. "Who are you running from?"
He blinks, surprised. "What makes you think I'm running?"
"Because you're in an airport at midnight looking like your world ended too."
For a long moment, he just stares at me. Then he smiles—sad and beautiful. "You're perceptive."
"So? Who hurt you?"
He looks away, at the storm raging outside the windows. "Everyone I ever trusted. But that was a long time ago. I don't trust anyone anymore."
"That sounds lonely."
"It is," he admits. "But it's safer than letting people close enough to destroy you."
We sit in silence for a minute. Around us, angry passengers yell at gate agents. Kids cry. Phones ring. But in our little bubble, it's quiet.
Then I get a crazy idea.
"What if we made a deal?" I say suddenly.
He turns back to me. "What kind of deal?"
"Tonight—right now—we're nobody. No names. No real life. No past. Just two strangers who met in an airport during a storm. We can talk, or not talk, or just... exist without all the pain for a few hours. And tomorrow—" I swallow hard. "Tomorrow we never see each other again. We go back to our real lives and pretend this never happened."
He studies my face like he's trying to figure out if I'm serious. "Why would you want that?"
"Because I don't want to be Elara Sinclair tonight," I whisper. "The girl whose fiancé cheated on her. The girl whose father abandoned her. The girl who lost everything. I just want to be... a person. For a little while."
Understanding flashes in his dark eyes. "And I don't have to be whoever I am either."
"Exactly."
"No names," he says slowly. "No consequences."
"Just tonight."
He extends his hand. "Deal."
When our hands touch, electricity shoots up my arm. His hand is warm and strong and calloused—not soft like Trevor's. Like he's actually worked for things in his life.
We shake on it, and just like that, I'm no longer the broken Sinclair daughter.
I'm just a girl in an airport with a beautiful stranger.
"So, stranger," he says, still holding my hand. "What do you want to do with our one night of freedom?"
I think about it. "I'm starving. I haven't eaten since breakfast because I was too nervous about the party."
"There's a diner about two blocks from here. Open all night. Terrible coffee but amazing pie."
"How do you know that?"
He grins. "I've been stuck in this airport before. Come on."
We stand up, and he doesn't let go of my hand. We walk through the terminal together, past all the miserable people waiting for morning flights, and step out into the rainy New York night.
The rain is coming down hard now. He takes off his suit jacket and holds it over both our heads like an umbrella.
"You're getting wet," I say.
"I'll survive," he says, pulling me closer. "Run!"
We run through the rain, laughing like kids, splashing through puddles. By the time we reach the diner, we're both soaked. My fancy blue dress is ruined. His white shirt is see-through. We look like drowned rats.
And I can't remember the last time I felt this alive.
The diner is bright and warm and smells like coffee and bacon. An old waitress with pink hair looks up from wiping the counter.
"You two need towels or a lifeguard?" she asks.
"Both, probably," the stranger says, grinning.
We slide into a booth in the corner. He sits across from me, water dripping from his dark hair. Even soaking wet, he's gorgeous.
"So," I say. "No names, no past. What do we talk about?"
"Everything else." He leans forward. "Tell me something true. Something you've never told anyone."
My breath catches. That's a dangerous question. But isn't that why we're here? To be honest for once?
"I've spent my whole life trying to make my father love me," I say quietly. "I learned six languages because he said it was important. I got perfect grades. I worked eighteen-hour days at his company. I got engaged to a man I didn't really love because Dad said it was good for business. And tonight, I realized... none of it mattered. He never loved me. He never will."
The stranger reaches across the table and takes my hand again. "Then he's an idiot. And he doesn't deserve you."
"You don't even know me."
"I know you're brave enough to run away from a bad situation. I know you're honest even when it hurts. I know you have the saddest eyes I've ever seen, and I want to make them smile." He squeezes my hand. "That's enough."
My heart does something weird in my chest. "Your turn. Tell me something true."
He hesitates. For a second, I think he won't answer. Then he says, "When I was fifteen, I lost everything. My parents. My home. Everything I loved. And I promised myself I'd never be that powerless again. So I built an empire. I became rich and successful and untouchable. But you know what? I'm still alone. I'm still that scared kid inside. I just hide it better now."
"That's not hiding," I say softly. "That's surviving."
"Is there a difference?"
"Yes. Surviving means you're still here. Still fighting. Still hoping things can get better."
He looks at me like I just said something profound. "Are you hoping things get better?"
"Tonight? No. Tonight I just want to forget." I meet his eyes. "Tomorrow I'll worry about hope."
The waitress brings us coffee and pie—cherry for me, apple for him. We eat and talk about everything except who we really are. He tells me about traveling the world. I tell him about my mom, before she got sick. He makes me laugh with stories about terrible hotels he's stayed in. I make him smile talking about sneaking into hotel kitchens as a kid.
Hours pass like minutes.
Around 4 AM, I realize I'm holding his hand across the table and I don't remember when that started. His thumb is drawing slow circles on my palm, and every touch sends shivers through me.
"I should probably ask," I say, my voice barely a whisper. "Do you have a girlfriend? Wife? Boyfriend?"
"No one," he says. "I told you. I don't let people close."
"But you're letting me close."
"You're different." His dark eyes burn into mine. "You're temporary. Tomorrow we disappear. That makes it... safer."
"Safer," I repeat. But my heart is pounding because being near him doesn't feel safe at all. It feels dangerous and thrilling and exactly what I need.
"We should go," he says, but he doesn't move.
"Where?"
"I don't know. Anywhere. Nowhere." He stands up, still holding my hand, and pulls me to my feet. "Let's just walk."
We leave money on the table and step back out into the rainy night. The storm has calmed to a gentle drizzle. The streets are empty and quiet. We walk without direction, just two shadows moving through the darkness.
"Can I tell you something crazy?" I ask.
"Please do."
"I feel like I've known you forever. Like we're not really strangers at all. Does that sound insane?"
"Completely insane," he says. "I feel it too."
We stop walking. We're standing under a streetlight, rain falling softly around us. He reaches up and tucks a wet strand of hair behind my ear. His hand lingers on my cheek.
"This is where I should say goodnight," he whispers. "Walk away. Keep my promise about no consequences."
"But you're not walking away," I breathe.
"No. I'm not."
He kisses me.
And the whole world disappears.
His lips are soft and urgent and perfect. I grab his wet shirt and pull him closer, kissing him back with everything I have—all my pain and loneliness and desperate need to feel something good.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"There's a hotel," he says roughly. "Two blocks from here. We could—"
"Yes," I interrupt. I don't need him to finish. "Yes."
We practically run to the hotel—a small place, nothing fancy. He pays cash for a room. The clerk doesn't even look at us.
In the elevator, we kiss again. I can't stop touching him. His hands are in my hair. We're pulling at each other's wet clothes. The elevator dings at the third floor and we stumble out, still kissing, until he finds our room.
The door closes behind us.
And then there are no more words.
Just hands and breath and skin and need. He's gentle at first, asking if I'm sure, if this is okay. I answer by pulling him down to the bed.
What happens next is the most intimate, intense, beautiful thing I've ever experienced. It's not just physical. It's emotional. Soul-deep. Like we're two broken pieces that somehow fit together perfectly.
After, lying in his arms with the sheets tangled around us, I whisper, "I wish tonight could last forever."
He holds me tighter, his lips against my hair. "Me too."
But we both know it can't.
When I wake up, golden morning light is streaming through the windows.
The bed next to me is empty.
I sit up, clutching the sheet to my chest. "Hello?"
Silence.
He's gone. His clothes are gone. No note. No number. Nothing.
Just like we agreed. No consequences.
So why does it feel like my heart just broke all over again?
I get dressed in my wrinkled blue dress and leave the hotel. On the street, people rush past—heading to work, living their normal lives. I feel like a ghost.
My phone is dead. I have no idea what time it is. I flag a taxi and give the driver my grandmother's address.
As we drive through Manhattan, I stare out the window and try to convince myself that last night was just a beautiful dream. A temporary escape. Nothing more.
But I can still feel his hands on my skin. His lips on mine. The way he looked at me like I was worth something.
It doesn't matter, I tell myself firmly. You'll never see him again.
The taxi pulls up to my grandmother's townhouse. I pay and get out, feeling numb and hollow.
I let myself in quietly, hoping Grandmother is still asleep. But she's sitting in the living room with her tea, looking at me with knowing eyes.
"Rough night, dear?" she asks gently.
I burst into tears. Again. "Grandma, everything is ruined. Trevor and Celeste. Dad fired me. I ran away. I met someone and—" I can't finish.
She pats the seat next to her. I collapse onto the couch and cry into her shoulder while she strokes my hair.
"It's going to be okay, Elara," she whispers. "I promise."
But I don't see how it possibly can be.
Three weeks later, I'm still living with Grandmother. Still unemployed. Still heartbroken.
And I'm late.
My period is late. Two weeks late.
"No," I whisper, staring at the calendar on my phone. "No, no, no."
Sophie comes over with three pregnancy tests from the pharmacy. "Just take them," she says. "You need to know."
My hands shake as I pee on the first stick. Then the second. Then the third.
We wait three minutes that feel like three hours.
All three tests show the same thing: Two pink lines.
Positive.
I'm pregnant.
With a stranger's baby.
A man whose name I don't even know.
"Oh my God," Sophie breathes. "Elara, what are you going to do?"
I can't answer. I just stare at those pink lines and feel my entire world tilt sideways.
My phone rings. Unknown number.
"Hello?" I answer numbly.
"Miss Sinclair? This is Marcus Chen from Cross International Hotels. We've recently acquired your family's company, and our CEO would like to meet with you about a potential position. Are you available tomorrow at 2 PM?"
A job. A real job. Maybe this is the universe giving me a break.
"Yes," I say quickly. "Yes, I'll be there."
I hang up and look at Sophie. "I have a job interview tomorrow."
"That's great!" She hugs me. "See? Things are looking up."
But that night, lying in bed with my hand on my still-flat stomach, I wonder how I'm going to do this. How I'm going to raise a baby alone. How I'm going to survive.
The next day, I put on my best suit and go to Cross International's headquarters. The building is massive—all glass and steel and power.
A receptionist leads me to a conference room on the top floor. "Mr. Cross will be with you shortly," she says.
I sit down and try to calm my racing heart. I need this job. I need it desperately.
The door opens.
A man walks in.
And my entire world stops.
It's him.
The stranger from the airport.
My one-night stand.
The father of my baby.
He freezes when he sees me. His eyes go wide. For one beautiful second, he looks happy—shocked, but happy.
Then his face goes completely blank. Cold. Like a door slamming shut.
"Miss Sinclair," he says, his voice like ice. "How... unexpected."
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't process what's happening.
"Mr. Cross," I manage to whisper.
Damien Cross. Billionaire. Hotel mogul. My family's new owner.
Is the man I had a one-night stand with.
And he has no idea I'm pregnant with his child.