ELOISE
I thought I was dead.
Honestly, I did.
For a moment, I imagined myself standing in heaven's long, endless queue—halo crooked, soul trembling—waiting to face divine judgment. But when I finally opened my eyes, the scene before me didn't look remotely like paradise.
The décor was wrong. The air felt too heavy. The sheets too soft. The scent too… masculine.
Then it hit me.
The accident.
A blinding green truck had come speeding toward me. My car froze. My hands refused to move. Metal screamed against metal—and then, nothing. Darkness.
And now… this.
I sat up with a jolt. "What the fuck!"
My heart raced wildly as I looked around. This wasn't my room. The walls were draped in dark hues—black, grey, brown. The kind of colors that screamed male energy. Definitely not my taste.
Where on earth was I?
Quick body check: my dress was still intact. My bra and panties were still there, clinging to me just fine. Only my shoes were missing.
Good. At least my dignity was still alive.
I scanned the bed for my phone—then remembered I hadn't gone out with it. Perfect. Now my overdramatic parents were probably calling every police channels in Zürich, thinking I'd been kidnapped by aliens.
God, why couldn't You just let me rest in peace instead of throwing me into another round of confusion?
Just as I was about to grab my shoes and sneak out, the door opened.
And in walked a man.
Tall. Composed. A phone pressed to his ear. His accent was rich—British, the kind that made words sound expensive. He spoke with a smooth authority that could make even silence listen.
I froze. Watched him. Studied him.
Brown, slightly curly hair. Skin almost pale beneath the soft light. White shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. A couple of buttons undone at the chest. Blue jeans. Black Versace belt. Polished shoes.
He looked like he'd just stepped out of a luxury magazine spread.
And here I was—barefoot, disoriented, half-certain I'd been kidnapped.
He ended his call and turned to me. Our eyes met.
Blue. His eyes were the kind of blue that shouldn't exist in real life—like oceans that never end.
We just stared at each other. Awkwardly. Too long.
Then he cleared his throat, and I looked away, pretending to inspect the floor like it was fascinating.
"Hello, miss," he said gently, voice deep and velvety. "Are you alright? Can you move comfortably?"
That voice. God, that voice could melt butter.
Instead of answering, I just kept staring, like an idiot trapped in curiosity.
He tried again. "You're safe now. Do you need me to call someone for you?"
That snapped me out of it. I jumped to my feet. "I'm fine—and please don't come anywhere closer to me." I retaliated when he inch a foot closer.
To my surprise, he actually stopped mid-step and raised both hands slightly. "Okay, fine."
He smiled—small, calm, disarming—and extended his hand. "I'm George. I just wanted to make sure you're okay. You had quite a scare back there. Are you feeling better now?"
I glanced at his hand, then at his face. Was this a trick?
"Look, George or whatever your name is," I said flatly, "I don't care. But if you're expecting me to thank you for saving me, I'm not grateful."
His brows furrowed. "You were almost crushed by a truck. That green thing hit the bridge rail—you were lucky to survive. I brought you here so my family doctor could check your pulse and make sure you were—"
"Wait. The green truck hit the bridge, and I'm in a hotel?" I repeated slowly.
"My hotel." He said, as if correcting something.
Hotel. The word rang alarms in my brain.
I narrowed my eyes. "So what, you brought me here to rape me?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Yes!" I folded my arms. "Because, last I checked, injured people are supposed to go to hospitals, not hotels."
His voice stayed calm, annoyingly calm. "Miss, I had no intention of touching you. You were in a bad state. I only wanted to help."
"Help?" I laughed bitterly. "At least you could have let me die! Take me to the hospital where unconscious people are well taken care of. Or, Maybe the truck should've finished the job. Then I wouldn't have to deal with my mom's constant tantrums or Anastasia calling me a thirty-two-year-old maiden—or my mother labeling me an old virgin!"
His eyes widened slightly, but I couldn't stop. The words poured out, sharp and burning.
"I should've been dead by now. Resting peacefully instead of living through this endless circus they call my life!"
Silence.
He just looked at me—no judgment, no pity, just quiet confusion and something else I couldn't name.
I grabbed my shoes and made for the door.
"Wait."
His voice stopped me cold. It was low, steady, understanding.
"Look," he said, "I get that you're upset. But it's already midnight, and it's not safe out there. What if something happens to you again?"
I turned on him, eyes blazing. "Who are you to care about my life or business? You don't know me. So back off."
He raised his hands again. "Alright, fine. But at least let me drop you off—to make sure you get home safely."
This man clearly didn't understand the word 'no.'
"I don't need your help. Not from you, not from anyone."
I stepped forward, but he blocked my path again.
"Okay, relax," he said quickly. "How about this—just give me your number, so I can check later if you made it home in one piece."
I stared at him in disbelief. "You English men must be born dumb. Move, or I'll scream that you're about to assault me."
His eyes widened. "Whoa!"
He jumped aside instantly, hands raised like a man escaping a crime scene.
Good choice.
Without another glance, I bolted out of the hotel lobby—barefoot, half-crazed, and completely done with the night.
By the time I got home, my life had officially worsened.
There they were—the parents.
Mom and Dad. Both in matching onesie pajamas. Waiting in the lounge like two court judges.
The aura in the room was deadly. My siblings and their spouses had long left to their various homes.
Dad's arms were folded. "Where have you been?"
I clutched my shoes to my chest. "I went out."
"To where?" Mom's voice was sharp enough to cut glass.
"Um…" I stalled, thinking fast. "I went to grab a drink."
"Eloise Ruby Ayomide!"
Uh oh. Full name alert.
Mom's voice hit a new octave. "So this is what you've become? A prostitute? Parading yourself in hotels?"
"What?!" I snapped my head up. "Mom, that's not true!"
How on earth did she even find out I was in a hotel? Was there a spy? Or—oh God—did George has something to do with this? Who knows if he was a secret spy agent my parents had hired?
"Shut up before I shut you up myself!" Mom barked. "So now you're frolicking around with strange men? Opening your legs for every species you meet outside?"
"Mom!" My voice cracked. "How could you even say that? I ended up in that hotel because of an accident! The person who told you I was there clearly forgot to mention that part! And if you people hadn't pressured me earlier, I wouldn't have left the house in the first place!"
I didn't wait for her next insult. I stormed off to my room, slamming the door hard enough to shake the walls.
I was done. Absolutely done with this family drama.
Every single day, the same broken record:
Go and get married. You're getting old. You'll reach menopause soon. Your gray hairs are showing. You can't cook. You don't socialize. You've never dated anyone. An old woman can't push a baby. Your breasts are sagging. Your womb is weakening. Eight years from now, you'll be forty.
Blah, blah, blah.
All I wanted right now was sleep.
Deep, quiet, undisturbed sleep—head buried under my pillow, far away from everyone and everything.
Thank you, and good night.