The CEO’s Bed Toy

I woke up with the worst hangover of my life and the best sheets I’d ever slept in.

At first, I thought I was dreaming.

The sheets were crisp and smooth, heavy in a way that felt expensive.

The kind of sheets you don’t own unless your bank account looks like a phone number.

Then came the migraine.. dull, insistent, and not at all dreamy. I blinked into the soft light pouring in from the windows, confused.

My eyes scanned the room. Cream walls, massive windows, velvet curtains, gold fixtures. Definitely not my apartment. And I definitely didn't have a bar cart stocked with things I couldn't pronounce.

My stomach twisted.

Where the hell was I?

I sat up too fast, immediately regretting it as the world tilted sideways. My heart started pounding. This wasn't just a random hotel room.

This was a suite. Huge. Tasteful. Quiet. It even smelled rich.

Like leather, wood polish, and whatever cologne was still lingering in the air.

Then… it hit me.

Not just the headache, but the memories. Slippery and half-lit, but vivid enough.

The club.

Eliza.

Shots. So many shots.

And him.

That man.

God.

Heat climbed up my chest. It wasn't just the alcohol that made my cheeks burn. It was the realization.. the slow, horrifying clarity.

I’d slept with a stranger.

I did the thing I’d judged other women for. One wild night. No last name. No context. Just… heat and skin and noise.

I buried my face in my hands.

What was I thinking?

I glanced at the other side of the bed.

Empty.

Neatly smoothed out like he hadn't even slept there. Just me, wrecked and alone in five-star silence.

For a brief, stupid moment, I wondered if I’d imagined him. But then I moved, and everything ached in ways that proved I absolutely had not.

I wrapped a sheet around myself and padded to the nightstand. My phone was there, facedown, like it hadn't witnessed my poor decisions. I picked it up with a shaky hand and held my breath as it lit up.

No missed calls.

No texts from Troy.

Of course not.

Just one message from Eliza, sent sometime after midnight.

LIZA :

Left w my man. You better be deep in yours too. Don’t u dare be boring. Happy freakin birthday xoxo 💋

I exhaled, a mix between a sigh and a laugh. What was I expecting ?

Some ‘ prank, lol nevermind I love you’ text from Troy ?

That he’d show up with roses and call it a joke?

There was no text. No apology. Nothing.

I was officially dumped.

And I’d officially responded by having sex with someone I didn't know. In a hotel I couldn't afford on my best day.

I tossed the phone onto the bed and reached for my clothes. They were folded neatly on a chair.. which somehow made it worse. Like he was polite enough to clean up but not enough to say goodbye.

Then I saw it.

A small, matte black business card sitting beside the lamp. I didn't remember seeing it before.

I picked it up.

Minimalist. Sleek. Just a name.

Damien Wolfe

Executive Director, Wolfe & Locke

I stared at it.

No. No way.

The name kept repeating in my head like a siren. I turned the card over. Blank. I read it again, slower this time, trying to process.

Damien Wolfe.

Wolfe & Locke.

The company I’d been trying to get into for six months.

The company I was interviewing with tomorrow.

My heart stopped. My stomach dropped.

“No. No freaking way.”

I said it out loud, like maybe the walls would answer back and tell me it was a coincidence. That Damien Wolfe was a common name. That this was just some guy.

That no, I was not that unlucky.

I grabbed my phone again, fingers shaking as I opened the email from the recruiter. I scanned down to the bottom, to the signature.

Wolfe & Locke Design Division

Damien Wolfe, Executive Director

I sat down hard on the edge of the bed, card still in hand.

I had slept with my potential boss.

Or worse.. the CEO of the entire freaking company.

“What have I done?”

There was no way this couldn't bite me. My head started to spin again, but not from the tequila.

I needed to leave. Immediately.

***

The cab ride back to my apartment was a blur of nausea, anxiety, and me clutching that card like it was a detonator. I didn't even text Eliza until I was halfway up the stairs.

When I stepped into the apartment, she was in the kitchen, eating cereal straight from the box and wearing one of my sweatshirts.

“Look who finally made it home,” she said without turning. “Did you break anything? A hip? A headboard ?”

I dropped my bag and stood there.

She turned.. then gasped. “Oh my God, you look like you saw a ghost. Or married one.”

I walked straight to the table and dropped the business card in front of her.

She picked it up, chewing slowly. Read it. Then again. Her eyes went wide.

“Shut. Up.”

“I’m not joking.”

“This is the guy?”

I nodded.

Her face broke into a huge grin. “Girl. You slept with a billionaire.”

“I slept with my interviewer,” I snapped.

She paused.

“ Ohhhh,” she said, like it just clicked. “ Wolfe & Locke. The job. Design. The interview.”

“Yes. The job I need. The one I’ ve been preparing for for months. The one I might’ ve just destroyed because I had sex with the wrong man.”

Eliza blinked. Then shrugged. “Or the right man. I mean, at least he’s hot and rich. Could’ ve been worse. Could’ ve been a broke artist with a nose ring.”

“ Elizabeth.”

She stood and walked toward me. “Okay, okay. Real talk. Maybe it’s messy. Maybe it’s a total disaster. But it’s also kinda badass. You walked out of heartbreak and into a penthouse. If that’s not power, I don’t know what is.”

I dropped onto the couch, groaning. “I can’t go to that interview. What if he recognizes me?”

“You were drunk. Hair up. Makeup smudged. Lights low. Maybe he won’t. Maybe it’s nothing to him.”

That stung. But she had a point.

She looked at me, serious now. “ Sasha, this job is everything. You can’t ghost the opportunity of your dreams because of one night. Pretend it didn't happen. You’ re smart, you’ re talented, and you deserve to be there.”

I rubbed my face. “You really think I can pull this off?”

“I know you can.”

Then, like nothing had happened, she spun around and marched to my closet.

“Now,” she called over her shoulder, “we are picking an outfit that says hire me and not I moaned your name less than forty-eight hours ago.”

I snorted despite myself.

This was a mess. A full-on disaster. But she was right.

That night never happened.