Bound to the Billionaire Stranger

The sky above south-central San Francisco glittered with a scattering of stars and a slender crescent moon, casting a soft glow over the streets below. In the back seat of a yellow taxi, Lyra sat rigid, her small frame tense with nerves. Outside the window, city lights flickered past, but her gaze was fixed inward, replaying the past few days of frantic preparation. It was Julian’s birthday, and she’d planned what she was sure would be the perfect surprise—one she’d been practicing for hours in front of her bedroom mirror. Still, despite all her effort, a knot of anxiety twisted in her stomach. What if she wasn’t good enough? What if her inexperience drove him away?

She had forced herself to watch those explicit videos she’d found online, even though they made her skin crawl. She’d felt a wave of disgust each time, yet she had told herself it was necessary. She wanted to learn what he liked, hoping it might spark some confidence. Lyra loved Julian deeply, and doing something so intimate for the first time felt like the ultimate gift. She would endure any discomfort, she thought, if it proved how much she cared for him.

Her phone buzzed in her purse, and she reached for it, heart pounding. Julian’s message appeared: Meet me at The Celestia, darling—just us tonight. She smiled, her cheeks tingling with excitement and dread. The Celestia was one of those legendary five-star hotels everyone talked about, the kind of place where glass elevators rose inside marble atriums, and chandeliers spilled crystal light like rainbows. They’d agreed he would spend his evening alone with her, celebrating his birthday in privacy. The thought made her shoulders relax, then stiffen again at the memory of all that awaited her behind closed doors.

The driver’s voice crackled through the cab’s partition. “Miss, this is it,” he said gently. Lyra blinked, surprised, and with a hurried “Thank you” and a flurry of apologies, she handed over the fare and darted from the taxi. She didn’t want to hold him up any longer. Feet touching the sidewalk, she drew in a shaky breath and stepped back to take in the hotel’s façade: a grand structure of polished stone and gleaming windows, the name EL CHRISANTO arching in gold above the revolving door.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she crossed the short plaza. This was it—the moment she’d imagined so many times. Her throat felt dry, and she swallowed again while her heart drummed a rapid tattoo against her ribs. Soon, she’d be completely unclothed in front of the man she adored, a milestone she’d dreamed of and feared in equal measure. Part of her wanted to flee, to hide behind her apartment door and pretend nothing was happening tonight. But she knew this was a step they’d have to take sooner or later, to deepen their bond. If not now, then when?

She straightened her shoulders and forced her legs forward. He was wealthy, sophisticated—exactly the kind of man who’d known plenty of women before her, women who met his tastes more readily than she felt she could. Julian had never bragged about his past to her, but Lyra had overheard whispers, hints of his experiences. Now, teetering on the threshold, she dared to hope her shy, unpolished body would still be enough to thrill him.

Through the hotel’s grand entrance, she followed a carpeted corridor that led past hushed lounge areas and discreet elevators. Soft music floated through the air—just audible, no more than a murmur, promising something sumptuous at the end of this passage. Under the dim, amber light, she stole a glance at herself: the crystal-blue mini dress clung to her curves, the hem riding high over her thighs. She’d paired it with black ankle boots that clicked against the marble floor. The dress’s plunging neckline bared more skin than she ever dared show in public; she could still feel the weight of her own embarrassment. No sleeves, almost no fabric at all, and in total contrast to her usual modest style, it left her cleavage boldly displayed. She tugged the small black jacket tighter around her shoulders—though it barely covered her chest—and felt grateful for even that meager shield.

A gentle swell of music grew louder as she reached a set of heavy double doors, and beyond them lay the hotel’s private club. Pushing them open, Lyra stepped into a world of dazzling gold and sapphire light, chandeliers dripping with crystals from the high ceiling. The warm glow washed over a crowd of well-dressed strangers, many of whom turned to glance at her as she entered. She clutched her jacket closer and kept her gaze low, cheeks burning as dozens of curious or hungry eyes roamed her exposed skin. She wished Clara had agreed to come with her tonight—someone she knew who might have held her hand and said everything would be fine. Instead, Lyra was on her own, a solitary figure in dazzling, intimidating opulence.

She scanned the room, looking for signs of how to proceed. Her gaze flitted to the stage on the far right, where two women danced with bravado, their bodies moving in ways that made Lyra shiver with both fascination and horror. Disgust urged her to look away—their performance was far more lewd than anything she’d intended to enact with Julian—but she couldn’t help a quick, embarrassed peek before tearing her eyes elsewhere. She spotted the bar: a sleek marble counter with rows of glass bottles and a lone bartender polishing a wine glass. If anyone could tell her where the suite elevators were, it would be him.

Navigating between small tables and couples leaning close, she threaded her way across the room. Every few steps, she nearly bumped into someone else—businessmen in crisp suits, women in shimmering gowns, mingling with murmured laughter and clinking glasses. Passing a pair of drunk lovers on the verge of making out, Lyra bit her lower lip to steady herself. Even the air smelled foreign: a mix of perfumed cologne, spilled wine, and the faintest hint of leather from a nearby seating area. She hated it all—the invasive stares, the overheard sighs and words dripping with hidden desire.

At last, she reached the bar and offered a timid smile to the bartender, a handsome blond man whose tidy shirt hugged his lean torso. He returned the smile with a polite nod as he wiped a counter with a spotless rag. “Excuse me,” Lyra said softly, her voice trembling just enough for him to hear. “Could you tell me where the suite elevators are?”

He gestured toward the far left side of the hall. “Just past the lounge, then through those doors. You’ll see the elevators—press three for the third-floor suites.” His tone was affable, unhurried. Lyra murmured her thanks and slipped away, her heart still hammering in her chest.

Following his directions, she crossed once more through the softly lit lounge and found the double doors he’d indicated. Inside, a stainless-steel elevator awaited. She stepped in and pressed the button marked “3.” The doors closed, and for a long moment she stood in the quiet, smelling the faint scent of polished metal and hearing only the hum of the rising car. Three floors, three breaths of calm, three ticks closer to whatever awaited her.

With a soft ping, the doors opened, revealing a narrow hallway lined with doors numbered 301 through 307. The carpet under her boots was a deep navy, and the walls were painted a warm cream, lit by sconces that cast gentle pools of light. Lyra exhaled shakily and proceeded to her right, each step echoing faintly. Her heart leapt with every footfall; she counted the soft thuds in her mind like a nervous metronome.

There it was: 306. She stopped directly across from the door, her fingers brushing the polished brass number. From inside, muffled sounds drifted out—soft, familiar whimpers that made her freeze. Julian had said they’d spend the evening alone together. What was that? A moment of dread seized her, cold and fierce. She hesitated, hand poised above the doorknob. Should she turn and run? No, she chided herself—courage, please. She gave the knob a tentative twist and pushed.

What she saw inside shattered her world. There, on the plush king-sized bed, Julian lay entwined with another woman. Their bodies moved together in a way Lyra had only dreamed of sharing with him. The other woman’s skin gleamed, and Julian’s expression was one of pleasure Lyra had never seen put there by her. Shock flooded her veins, leaving her breathless. She felt as though the floor had disappeared beneath her.

Without a word, without processing more, she slammed the door shut. Her world spun, dizziness swallowing her senses as she stumbled back. Her chest ached, lungs straining for air. Pain, betrayal, humiliation—each emotion stabbed her heart, and she veered wildly down the hallway. Tears welled, blurring the clean lines of the corridor, and she scarcely noticed where she ran or who she might collide with.

In her panic, she crashed into something solid. Her forehead struck a firm surface, but it yielded with a dull, soft thud rather than cold steel. She staggered, ready to crumble, and instinctively reached out to steady herself. When she blinked through the haze and the tears, her gaze fell to a pair of polished leather shoes standing before her. The world around her tilted, and she realized she was leaning heavily against the legs of a stranger—or someone whose presence now felt unbearably real. The hallway lights spun above her, and her vision swam with pain and sorrow as she tried to gather herself against this new, unexpected support.