The elevator hummed,gliding up the thirty floors like a secret. Ashley's reflection flickered in the mirror-paneled walls,hotel uniform still stiff from her shift,hair tugged back into a low bun,and nerves stiched into her spine like embroidery.

She clutched the tray tighter. One bottle of Yamazaki whisky,two crystal tumblers,and a man waiting behind a penthouse door.

Suite 1702.

she didn't recognize the name on the order -Mr. K. Ashford- but she'd heard the whispers. Tech mogul. Billionaire. No photos online, private as hell. The kind of man who owned silence and filled rooms with gravity.

she knocked once. The door opened before her knuckles even left the wood. And there he was.

He wasn't just handsome. He was dangerous. Devastating.

"Room service", she managed. His eyes dragged down her body,slow, unfocussed, glossy with drink. "You're not the usual girl".He said.

"l... I'm just covering for someone", she spoke. "Here's your bottle".

But instead of taking it, he stepped back, " Bring it in".

Hesitation flarred in her chest. This wasn't protocol. she should leave it at the door. But his voice curled around her like smoke, and something in her - a fragile, reckless spark-moved her feet forward

The suite was dim, lit only by the city to through ten- foot windows. Tokyo glittered like spilled diamonds. The king- sized bed sat rumpled, sheets kicked halfway off, and the scent in the air was all leather and warm cologne and heat.

she set the tray down. "Would you like ice or-"

He closed the door behind her. Then silence. She turned,breath stalling as she realized he was closer. Too fucking close. And those dark eyes of his like black coffee in the morning,were locked on her like he was trying to remember who sage was,or convince himself he didn't care.

"Don't be nervous",he said softly, stepping into her space.

"I'm not _",her voice caught again. His fingers were already sliding beneath her chin.

"I've had a shit week",he whispered,thumb brushing her bottom lip."You don't have to say a word. Just stay."

She could have walked away. Should have. But her heart was pounding in her throat,blood rushing hot to places that made her thighs squeeze. His mouth was inches from hers,warm breath threading between them.

"S...sir please. I...I have to go. You are drunk a...and I've served you so I have to go serve others",she breathed.

She walked away,one step. Two. Before she could take the third step,he caught her wrist, dragged her back to him and pinned her against the wall.

"Who gave you permission to walk out on me?!",he exclaimed. "I give the orders here, understand?!".

"Sir please,I don't want to go through any pain...",she cried.

"Pain?",he laughed. "Don't worry,I'll be gentle. Its sweet".

...To be continued......

“Okay,” she breathed, and that one word was enough.

He kissed her like a storm. No warning, no mercy—just lips crashing, teeth grazing, hands fisting into her blouse and pulling until buttons popped. She gasped into his mouth, startled by her own need, the way her body arched into his touch without thought.

He tasted like whisky and want, tongue parting her lips with slow, dirty precision. His hands dragged down her spine, found the curve of her ass, squeezed.

He lifted her effortlessly, setting her on the low marble counter. Her legs fell open with a shudder as his hips pressed in.

“I don’t even know your name,” she gasped, head tipping back.

“Don’t tell me,” he said, dragging kisses along her throat. “Just be mine. Tonight.”

She moaned when he sank to his knees, mouth finding the heat between her legs through the thin barrier of cheap cotton panties. He kissed her there, tongued her slow, worshipped her with every slick stroke until she was gripping the counter like she might fall off the edge of the world.

Then he stood, pushed her skirt up, yanked her underwear down and off with one hand, and undid his belt the rest of the way with the other.

She saw him for the first time—thick, hard, veined—and a breathless curse slipped from her lips. He leaned in close, rubbing the head of his cock against her soaked entrance.

“You sure?” he murmured.

She nodded, trembling. “Yes.”

He slid in—slow at first, then all at once, filling her with a groan that rumbled low in his chest. She clutched at his shoulders, legs locking around his waist, back arching as he began to move.

Every thrust was deep, relentless. His hands in her hair, mouth on her neck, her moans muffled by the curve of his shoulder. He fucked her like he’d been waiting for her all his life and had only tonight to make it count.

And when she came—clenching tight around him, breath broken—he kissed her hard, then buried himself deep with a low growl and finished inside her.

They didn’t speak.

He helped her down, handed her a towel like it was the most natural thing in the world. She dressed in silence. He poured himself a drink.

“You staying?” he asked quietly.

She hesitated, heart clenching.

“No.”

He didn’t stop her.

And when the door clicked shut behind her, she didn’t look back.

Three weeks later, Ashley sat on the chipped edge of her bathtub, heart thudding loud enough to drown out the fan whirring overhead. The cheap plastic stick lay on the bathroom counter like a weapon. She hadn’t looked at it yet. She didn’t have to. Her body already knew.

But the test confirmed it anyway.

Two pink lines.

Solid. Unforgiving. Positive.

She blinked, hoping they’d blur, fade, vanish. But they stayed. Stark against white, like a cruel little secret carved in plastic.

Her stomach turned—not from nausea this time, but panic. Sharp and fast, like a knife between her ribs. She pressed her palm flat to her belly, like maybe she could hold it all in. The heartbeat. The memory. The fucking truth.

A baby.

His baby.

She barely knew his name. Kyle. No last name. No number. No clue what company he ran or what continent he flew to the next morning. Just that voice, low and husky in her ear, and that look in his eyes when he slid inside her like he already owned her.

Ashley squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t cry. She’d done that already. Last week. Twice. Today she was numb.

Her phone buzzed beside the sink—another reminder from work. Back to the grind. Back to the smiles. No one could know. Not yet.

The mirror caught her face as she stood up. Pale. Still flushed from the heat of the shock. She ran cold water over her wrists and breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth, counting down from ten.

She couldn’t afford this. Literally.

Her apartment was barely one step up from condemned. The pipes rattled when the heat kicked in. She lived paycheck to paycheck, on tips and leftovers from shift meals. She didn’t have a safety net. She was the safety net—for her younger sister, for the little rent money she sent home when she could.

And now she had something else growing inside her. Something terrifying. Something... innocent.

Her hands moved instinctively to her belly again, fingers splaying over her flat stomach.

“Jesus,” she whispered. “What the hell am I gonna do?”

The answer came two days later.

She was on shift, moving trays in the banquet hall during a corporate conference. Dozens of executives and power players in tailored suits, laughing too loud over glasses of wine and steak too expensive to pronounce.

She bent to clear a table—and froze.

Her fingers clenched around the silverware.

Him.

There he was, standing beside the CEO of the hosting firm, tall and clean-shaven, suit cut so perfectly it must’ve been measured straight from his sins. Laughing. Talking. Holding a glass of something neat and golden.

That’s him. That’s the man who fucked me senseless and forgot my name.

Kyle Ashford.

Ashley couldn’t breathe. She ducked behind a marble column, heart hammering, panic climbing her throat like a vine.

And then—his eyes swept the room.

Paused.

Stopped.

Right on her.

Recognition didn’t flicker.

Not even a spark.

Nothing.

She might as well have been wallpaper.

Ashley turned away, mouth dry, cheeks burning.

He doesn’t even remember.

But her body did. Every shiver. Every breathless cry. Every thrust that still echoed through her when she closed her eyes.

And now she had his child inside her.

She thought she could forget it. Pretend it was a dream. But fate had other plans.

Because tomorrow, her manager announced, she'd be assigned to the executive wing. On full-time service.

Kyle Ashford’s wing.

Her baby daddy was about to become her boss.

Chapter Three: The Elevator That Lied

The executive wing was quiet in that unnerving, expensive kind of way—carpet so thick her shoes didn’t make a sound, walls lined with dark walnut and minimalist art that probably cost more than her college debt. It was like walking into the belly of a shark: beautiful, sleek, and full of teeth.

Ashley adjusted the silver serving cart. It rattled once. Too loud. She bit her lip and pushed it down the hallway, willing her fingers to stop trembling.

Suite 3410. Kyle Ashford.

Her heart hiccupped just seeing the name on the placard. Clean serif font. Cold. Detached. Like he didn’t have a woman sobbing into a pregnancy test two weeks ago. Like he hadn’t carved himself into her with every thrust and left her empty.

She knocked twice, professional.

No answer.

Then a voice from behind her, deep and smooth:

“You’re early.”

She spun too fast, startled. And there he was again.

Kyle. Towering, sharp-edged, smell of cedar and aged scotch still clinging to him. His tie was loosened, jaw shadowed, eyes just as cold and unreadable as the night he whispered don’t tell me your name.

“Mr. Ashford,” she managed, dropping her gaze like a coward. “Apologies. I was told to deliver—”

His voice interrupted, smooth as obsidian. “Ashley, right?”

Her spine went rigid. He remembered.

Her eyes snapped to his. But his expression was unreadable—casual. Distant. The kind of look a man gives a barista after the third coffee order. Nothing personal.

“Y-yes,” she said. “Ashley.”

He gestured lazily to the suite. “You can set it up inside.”

She pushed the cart in, hands shaking, too aware of his presence at her back. The door clicked shut behind him and her body remembered everything. The heat of his breath. The rasp of his voice. The sound he made when he came inside her without a word of protection or regret.

She laid out the tumblers. Poured the bourbon.

“You’ve worked here long?” he asked, loosening his cufflink.

“Almost a year.”

“You cover all the penthouse suites?”

“Sometimes.”

She didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.

Silence stretched long and cruel.

Then: “Have we met before?”

The question hit like a slap. Her breath stalled. She turned, slowly.

He was watching her, brow slightly raised, no hint of humor. Serious.

He didn’t know.

Her stomach turned. “I... don’t think so,” she lied, voice a whisper.

He studied her face. For a second, maybe a flicker—something in his gaze tightened. Then it was gone. He nodded once, took the drink, and turned toward the window.

Dismissed.

Ashley backed out of the suite, cheeks burning, bile rising in her throat. She wanted to scream. Or sob. Or slap him so hard he remembered.

The elevator doors slid open.

She stepped inside, heart jackhammering—and just as they began to close, his hand shot through. Kyle stepped in with her. Alone.

Silence again. Just the hum of descent. Just inches between them in the small mirrored box.

Ashley’s hands curled into fists.

He stood beside her, broad shoulders brushing hers with every jolt. He smelled the same. Looked the same. Everything in her traitor body screamed yes.

She felt it coming—panic, heat, tears—and then his voice broke the silence.

“You seem... familiar.”

Her mouth opened. Closed.

He turned to face her. Full on. Towering.

His eyes dropped to her lips. “Did we...?”

Her breath hitched. “No,” she said too fast. “You’re mistaken.”

His gaze lingered. Intense. Hungry.

“I don’t usually forget faces,” he murmured.

She swallowed. “I’m just staff.”

The elevator chimed.

Doors slid open.

He didn’t move. Neither did she.

He looked down. “Well... shame, if I did forget.”

And walked out.

Leaving her shaking.

Leaving her breathless.

Leaving her with a baby growing in her belly and a memory he couldn’t even be bothered to hold onto.