The Forgetful Billionaire

Charlotte stared at herself in the large mirror that stood directly in front of the bed. In her opinion, it was an odd interior choice. Who the hell places a mirror right in front of their bed? she thought.

"Are you shy? You don't have to do this if you don't want to," a voice said behind her, snapping her out of her thoughts.

It belonged to the man on the bed, slouched lazily with one leg dangling over the edge like he owned the place... and possibly the city too.

Charlotte looked at him through the mirror, a blush creeping up her cheeks. He was naked, every inch of him unashamed and perfectly lit by the soft glow of the room.

His glaring erection was a sight that left her feeling hot.

A few hours earlier, Charlotte had been in a bar, nursing a cocktail and drinking away her frustrations when he approached her.

"Hello, beautiful," he’d said, his voice low and smooth as he leaned in close behind her.

She’d nearly choked on her drink. The suddenness of his approach startled her, and for a split second, she genuinely thought he might be trying to kill her. But then she turned and got a good look at him.

He looked like all the vanilla ice cream she’d ever want. The expensive, melt-on-your-tongue kind. He was tall, clean-cut, and carried himself like someone who didn’t hear “no” very often. Charlotte had been caught off guard, an unfamiliar feeling.

“What? Are you too stunned by my good looks?” he asked, grinning when she didn’t respond right away.

Snapping back into herself, she raised an eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself, mister.”

She considered that a smooth recovery. Her mother, God rest her soul, always told her not to fan the flames of a man’s ego.

“All right, I won’t,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll flatter you instead. You’re very beautiful.”

He leaned in and whispered the last part in her ear. She felt goosebumps rise on her arms... and her scalp. Who the hell gets goosebumps on their scalp?

“What do you want, mister?” she asked, trying to shake off the sensation.

“I saw a beautiful woman sitting by herself, and I thought... why not ask if she wants to do something interesting?” He smirked. “Like tumble in bed with moi.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes but couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at her lips. “Straight to the point. I like it.”

She wasn’t usually the type to go home with a man just because he had a sweet face and a silver tongue, but he was right, she didn’t have anything better to do. And for once, she wanted to stop thinking and feel something.

So here she was. Naked, with a stranger, staring into a mirror bigger than some apartments.

“I’ve never really done anything like this before,” she admitted, her voice soft. “I’m just... a little skittish, that’s all.”

She watched as he got up and came to stand behind her, their reflections meeting before their eyes did. He cupped her breast gently, then kissed the curve of her neck. His touch was warm, patient.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, guiding her towards the bed. “I’ll take care of you.”

***

Morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, they sun rays hit the bed and it's occupant right on her face.

Charlotte stirred under the sheets, her limbs tangled in warm, expensive cotton. For a brief second, she didn’t remember where she was. Then the faint scent of cinnamon and clean skin hit her nose.

She sat up slowly, taking in her surrounding. The space was sleek, minimal, and quietly intimidating, like a tiger who didn’t need to brag to prove power. Everything from the tailored suits hanging neatly on the rack to the crystal decanter by the window screamed money, real, real… long money.

She hadn't noticed any of these last night, probably because she was too busy reveling in pleasure. The spot beside her was empty, she tugged the sheet a little tighter around herself and scanned the room, no sign of him.

What? No morning kisses? No rousing her from her sleep with his s*xy voice? Charlotte blinked. Well, that was mysterious and slightly rude.

Still, curiosity tugged at her, stronger than the afterglow. She slipped out of bed, the sheet tucked like a second skin around her body. As she padded into the living room, her bare feet met polished floors.

She spotted her clothes neatly folded on a nearby chair, but no sign of the man from last night.

Until she reached the kitchen.

A tall man stood by the espresso machine, dressed now in a pressed white shirt and black slacks. His back was to her, hair neat, posture rigid, his attention solely focused on the cup of coffee he was making.

Something about him seemed… different.

“Hey,” she said, half-smiling, “Didn’t think you’d just disappear after blowing my mind.”

He turned and Charlotte smile faded a bit, her brows furrowing in confusion. It was him, but also… it wasn’t.

The playful smirk was gone. His eyes, while still an arresting shade of grey-blue, were colder and guarded. His entire energy had shifted from sensual and teasing to calculated and unreadable. Nothing like the man from the night before.

I’m sorry, miss,” he said, voice clipped and polite, “Do I… know you?”

Charlotte blinked hard, her confusion spreading through her like spilled red wine on plain white clothes. The mental image of that made her wince.

“It’s Charlotte, from last night?” she said slowly, trying to read his face. “We met at the bar? Ended up here? You said you’d take care of me…”

He stared for a moment longer, then smiled a smile that was nothing like the one he'd given her last night. This smile was polite and distant.

“I think you might be mistaken. I was at a business dinner all night.”

Charlotte’s throat went dry. “Are you serious right now?”

“I am,” he said. “But if someone else let you in, I’ll have security escort you out. This is a private residence.”

Her stomach dropped. She looked around again, same place, same skyline, same scent clinging to her skin, but the man in front of her? Not the same, or… was he?

Charlotte stared at him, trying to make sense of what was happening at the moment. His jaw was the same. His voice, though colder, still had the same deep cadence, but everything else was off, way off, like over the moon off.

“You really don’t remember me?” she asked, a little breathless.

He didn’t blink. “I’m afraid not.”

She narrowed her eyes, scanning his face for a flicker of the man who had whispered in her ear, who had kissed her neck like it was sacred, held her like she was precious cargo.

“Last night,” she said, stepping forward. “You held me, you told me not to worry, you kissed me here.” She pointed to a spot on her collarbone. “And now you’re acting like I’m some crazy woman who broke in.”

He didn’t flinch. “That would be quite the story, wouldn’t it?”

The polite smile he wore made her stomach twist, not out of embarrassment but out of fury. Was this some kind of morning-after game? A cruel prank? She didn’t wait to find out.

“Fo