I woke up the next morning sore as hell, my body aching in places I couldn’t explain.

The first thing that hit me was the silence, the kind that hums inside your head when you know something’s off.

Then the next realization hit harder: I wasn’t home. I was in a hotel room.

For a full minute, I just sat there, frozen, the white sheets tangled around me. My heart raced as flashes from last night tried to resurface: Ethan, his betrayal, Chrissy’s laughter, the taste of that burning drink.

Then it came, like a film reel I didn’t want to see: being chased, the open door, the stranger with the towel, his voice warning me to leave. My stomach twisted. God, what did I do?

There was a strange gap in my memory, like someone had cut out whole scenes from my night. I couldn’t tell who exactly the person I slept with, only that I woke up like this.

Still dazed, I looked to the bedside table and saw a folded note.

It read:

“Don’t get drunk alone like you did last night. Not everyone is as gentle as I am. I left some 2k dollars for your service because you did better than most. XOXO.”

My jaw dropped. A laugh- half disbelief, half anger- tore out of me.

Really? Two thousand dollars?

After taking my virginity, the stranger decides to pay me off like I’m some cheap plaything?

I was furious. My blood boiled until I could taste the bitterness in my mouth.

I grabbed the money, marched downstairs, and dropped it at the receptionist’s desk.

“Give this back to whoever left it,” I said, my voice sharp enough to cut glass.

Then, without looking back, I tossed the note into the trash bin.

By the time I got home, the anger had melted into something heavier.

I slammed the door behind me, slid down the wall, and the tears came hard and fast, not just because of Ethan, or Chrissy, or the stranger…

…but because I couldn’t recognize myself anymore.

After giving myself a long, hard pep talk, I reminded myself, I’m that girl.

The girl who used to light up rooms and win every debate.

The girl who ghostwrote bestselling novels while pretending she didn’t need the credit.

I was a writing genius before I threw it all away for my useless ex-boyfriend, the same one who said, “You don’t need to work, baby. I’ve got you.”

Stupid, arrogant, spoiled rich kid.

Well, look who’s “got” me now- broke, humiliated, and alone.

No. That ends today.

I’ll get my revenge — not by screaming or crying, but by rising. Quietly. Beautifully.

I’ll become the kind of woman he’ll never stop regretting losing.

To start, I needed to get back into writing.

I opened my laptop, pulled up every site I could think of, and started applying for jobs. Ghostwriting, editing, internships, anything.

Hours passed. Nothing.

Every job was either unpaid or looking for a miracle worker with ten years’ experience.

Frustrated, I got up, grabbed a pack of cookies and some juice, and flopped back into bed. I told myself I’d try again tomorrow.

But just as I was about to close my laptop, a new post appeared on my screen:

Writing Intern, Voss Publishing Company.

Normally, I’d scroll right past. A new publishing company? Probably chaotic. And an intern position? Beneath me.

But I was desperate, and pride doesn’t pay bills.

I clicked “Apply,” took a deep breath, and whispered, “This is my comeback.”

Then I lay back on my pillow, exhausted, finally allowing myself to rest after everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

Days passed. Still no reply.

I checked my email a hundred times. Nothing.

Finally, I decided to stop waiting.

That morning, I slipped into a fitted gown, brushed a deep red lipstick across my lips, something I hadn’t done in months, and slipped into my favorite heels.

In the mirror, I looked like the version of me I missed: bold, dangerous, alive.

“You’re not begging,” I told my reflection. “You’re claiming.”

I was nervous, I always am before doing something insane, but I’d been humiliated enough for a lifetime. This was redemption.

I hailed a taxi. The driver tried to make small talk, but I wasn’t in the mood. I gave him a polite smile and turned to the window. Thankfully, he took the hint.

When the car finally pulled up, my jaw dropped.

Voss Publishing Company.

For a new business, the building was massive, all glass and steel. The kind of place that smelled like money and quiet power.

Inside, the reception was sleek and intimidating.

The receptionist looked up with a professional smile. “Good morning. Who are you here to see?”

“The CEO,” I said, trying to sound like I belonged there.

She raised a brow. “Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” I lied, steady as stone.

“Alright, let me call to confirm.” She bent her head to dial the phone.

The moment her eyes dropped, I bolted.

I slipped past the desk, into the elevator, and pressed the top floor button, guessing it to be the CEO’s office before she could even blink.

By the time she shouted, the doors were closing.

My heart hammered in my chest, but a wild thrill coursed through me. For once, I wasn’t waiting to be chosen. I was choosing myself.

The elevator doors slid open to reveal marble floors, tall windows, and silence so sharp it made my heels sound sinful.

I spotted a large mahogany door slightly ajar and pushed it open.

Security stormed in behind me seconds later, voices overlapping in confusion.

“What’s going on here?” a deep voice asked.

I froze. That voice.

Still staring at the floor, a trick I once read made men instinctively protective, I didn’t say a word.

“It’s fine,” the voice said again, calm, commanding. “I’ll handle it. You can leave.”

The guards hesitated, then stepped back out, closing the door behind them.

I took a shaky breath and lifted my head

and the air left my lungs.

Standing behind the massive desk was Alexander Bells.

My ex-boyfriend’s father.