A Turn of Fate
POV of Finn
“This can’t be real,” Finn rasped, his voice barely scraping out as he lay there, struggling to shake off the strange calm pressing down on him. His eyes moved to the bed—an enormous, luxurious thing, but not untouched. The elegant gray sheets, once pristine, were now rumpled, creased in a way that told a story. Someone had been here.
His pulse quickened. He could feel it in his chest, each beat louder than the last. The faint scent of perfume still lingered—feminine, floral, and intoxicating, curling around him like a whisper. It wasn’t just in the air; it clung to the sheets, to his skin. With a sharp inhale, he sat up abruptly, his heart thudding as his eyes darted around the unfamiliar room.
The worst part? He wasn’t wearing anything—just a white sheet loosely draped around his waist. His breath hitched as he noticed something else—long, black strands of hair tangled on the sheets. Not his. Not his.
“Jesus Christ.” He slapped his face lightly, trying to jolt himself awake, his mind racing. What the hell had happened? His heart pounded harder, the weight of confusion and fear setting in. “What’s going on?” he whispered, but no one was there to answer. Just the smell of that perfume and the unsettling quiet of the room around him.
“How did I get here?” Finn’s mind felt heavy, wrapped in a thick fog. He strained to remember, but it was all a blur. Slowly, he pushed himself up, head pounding from whatever he’d drunk last night. His thoughts were sluggish, jumbled.
“What the hell…?” he muttered, his voice rough.
He glanced around, confusion tightening in his chest. “Where am I?” The room was unfamiliar and sterile. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, clutching the white sheet around his waist. His bare feet sank into the plush carpet. His eyes locked on a glass of lemonade sitting on the small table beside the bed.
Throat dries, he grabbed the glass, pulling the sheet tighter around him as if someone might walk in and catch him half-naked. He took a sip, the tartness hitting his tongue, cutting through the haze in his mind. His pulse steadied, but only slightly.
“Come on, Finn, think,” he whispered, scanning the room again. He shut his eyes, trying to push past the fog, desperate to remember how the night had spun out of control.
Finn caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror and froze. Two reddish marks stood out against his skin, just below his neck. Love bites. He reached up, fingertips brushing over them. His throat tightened as reality hit—hard.
His mind whirled, and suddenly, last night came flooding back.
The gala. The music. The lights. Eva…
He whispered her name like he was testing the weight of it. It felt foreign, unreal. But then she came back to him in a flash—tall, confident, dark hair spilling over her shoulders like a midnight river. She wasn’t just beautiful; she was magnetic, and dangerous, every inch of her exuding power. He remembered the way she’d noticed him, while he served drinks, how her eyes locked on his, cutting through the crowd.
And then, she’d kissed him. Right there, in front of everyone.
“The kiss…” he murmured, feeling it all over again—the softness of her lips, the way she tasted, sweet and bold. The memory hit him like a tidal wave. The room had gone dead silent when she pulled him close, shocked gasps rippling through the guests. But Eva? She didn’t care. Not a second’s hesitation.
His tongue grazed his lips as if the taste of her was still there, lingering. The flashback dissolved, and Finn turned toward the window, eyes scanning the city skyline. It stretched out before him—towering buildings and glittering lights, a world so far from the one he knew. Late nights, bar shifts, the sound of clinking glasses—none of that belonged here.
But somehow, he did now.
Finn’s mind sparked again, fragments of the night rushing back. After the kiss, Eva had invited him for a drink—not as a bartender, but as something more. They’d found a corner, dimly lit and secluded, where she poured them champagne that tasted like liquid gold. He couldn’t recall the conversation—her soft laughter, the way her eyes locked onto his, the touch of her fingers gliding over his hand—that’s all he remembered. Her presence, electric and intoxicating, had blurred the world around them.
Then the image of her penthouse flooded his mind—the sprawling city glittering beneath them, like stars scattered at her feet. That’s where the memory stopped, the rest lost to the haze.
“Damn it,” Finn whispered, his voice rough as he raked his fingers through his hair. His body tensed, skin still tingling with the ghost of her touch.
He looked around the room, searching, aching for a sign of her. Why am I still here? Why had she brought him here? His chest tightened with anticipation and confusion. But the room was empty. No clothes, no lingering presence—just the faint, seductive scent of her perfume, curling through the air, wrapping around him like a whisper of last night.
His heart raced. “Where is she?” His voice was hoarse, desperate. The scent was all that remained, teasing him, a reminder of everything that had happened—and everything he couldn’t quite remember.