Selene's Pov:
Sunlight stabbed through the thin hotel curtains and landed straight on my face. I groaned, rolling over and pressing my cheek into the pillow that smelled like cheap detergent and nothing else. My head throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a dull reminder of how many tequilas I had lost count of last night. The room was quiet except for the distant hum of traffic outside. No music, no laughter, no strong arms holding me against a warm chest. Just me, alone, exactly the way I had wanted it.
I sat up slowly, the sheet slipping down my bare skin. My body ached in places that brought a rush of heat to my cheeks. Flashes came back uninvited, his mouth on my throat, the low growl in his voice when he told me to let go, the way his hands had pinned me exactly where he wanted me. Anonymous. No names. No promises. Just raw, blinding pleasure that had burned every ugly memory of Chicago out of my mind for a few perfect hours. I had never let myself go like that with anyone, not even Mason. The stranger had taken control so completely, so confidently, that I had forgotten how to think, only how to feel. And feel again and again until the world narrowed to nothing but the two of us and the city lights painting the ceiling.
A small, traitorous smile tugged at my lips. For the first time since the birthday party, I felt… light. Not healed. Not fixed. But lighter. Like the weight of the scandal, the betrayal, the poisoned smile my sister had worn had been lifted just enough for me to breathe. I swung my legs off the bed and padded to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. The mirror showed flushed cheeks and messy hair, but my eyes looked clearer than they had in days. Mexico was working. One more week, I decided. Maybe two. Long enough to let the gossip die down, long enough to figure out what came next without my father's PR machine or my family's expectations breathing down my neck.
I ordered coffee and fruit from room service, then stepped onto the tiny balcony. The morning air was already warm, carrying the scent of street food and exhaust. Below, people moved with purpose, vendors setting up stalls, kids chasing a ball, life happening without a single thought of Selene Pierce or her ruined reputation. I leaned on the railing and let the sun soak into my skin. For the first time I let myself replay the night without guilt. The way the stranger had looked at me across that bar, like he saw straight through the mess I was running from. The way he had carried me to his bed without asking permission because he already knew I would give it. The way his body had moved with mine, demanding, giving and perfect. I shivered despite the heat. Whoever he was, he had given me exactly what I needed: escape wrapped in ecstasy.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I ignored it at first, sipping the coffee that had arrived while I was outside. It buzzed again, longer this time. Then a third time. I sighed and picked it up, expecting another flood of notifications from Chicago. Instead the screen showed Julian's name. My stomach tightened. He never called unless it was important.
I answered on the fourth ring. "Julian."
"Selly." His voice was tight, the way it got when he was trying to stay calm under pressure. "You need to come home. Now."
I set the coffee down hard enough that some sloshed over the rim. "I told you I'm not ready. The scandal..."
"It's Mom." The words cut me off like a blade. "She collapsed last night. Severe heart episode. The doctors are saying it could be an aneurysm. They're running tests but… they don't think she has long if it ruptures. She's asking for you and keeps saying your name."
The balcony tilted. I gripped the railing until my knuckles went white. My mother, elegant, composed, the one person who had always tried to shield me, lying in a hospital bed? It didn't fit. She had been fine at the party, worried but steady. "You're sure? This isn't some trick to get me back for damage control?"
Julian's exhale was sharp. "I wouldn't lie about this. Dad's with her. Elliot's pacing the waiting room like he's about to break something. Camille's been crying nonstop. We need you here. The jet's already fueled. I can have a car at your hotel in thirty minutes."
My mind spun. The scandal, the photos, Camille's smile, Mason's choice, they all crashed back in, but now they were tangled with the image of my mother hooked up to machines. Guilt clawed at my chest. I had run to Mexico to save myself, and now the one person who had never asked me for anything might not make it through the week.
"I… I need time to think," I said, voice cracking.
"You don't have time." Julian's tone softened, but the urgency stayed. "She's stable for the moment, but the doctors won't guarantee anything past forty-eight hours. If you wait, you might not get to say goodbye."
The word goodbye landed like a punch. I closed my eyes and saw her face from the night of the party, pained, reaching for me as I walked away. I had left without a hug, without telling her I loved her. Because I had been too busy drowning in my own humiliation.
"Okay," I whispered. "Send the car."
I hung up before he could say anything else. My hands shook as I packed the small duffel. Jeans, the black sweater, the few things I had bought in the market yesterday. I left the emerald silk dress from the birthday folded neatly on the bed. It belonged to another life. I called the front desk, settled the bill, and waited in the lobby with my heart hammering against my ribs.
The car arrived exactly thirty minutes later, black and discreet, no Pierce crest on the doors. The driver didn't speak beyond a polite nod. I slid into the back seat and stared out the window as Mexico City blurred past, colorful buildings, crowded sidewalks, the life I had only begun to taste. Part of me wanted to tell the driver to turn around, to let me disappear into the crowd and never look back. But my mother's name kept echoing in my head. "Lena". She had called me that since I was small, like it was a secret between us. I couldn't ignore it.
The private jet waited on the tarmac, engines already humming. I climbed the stairs without looking back. Inside, the leather seats felt too familiar, too much like home. I buckled in and closed my eyes as the plane accelerated down the runway. The ascent pressed me back, and for a moment I let myself remember the stranger again, the way he had made me feel weightless, wanted, free. A secret I would keep locked away. No one in Chicago needed to know I had found solace in a nameless man's bed. It was mine.
Hours later the Chicago skyline appeared below, gray and sharp under a layer of clouds. The landing was smooth, but my stomach stayed knotted. A different car waited at the small executive terminal. This one bore the subtle Pierce insignia on the plates. Julian sat in the back, face drawn, tie loosened.
He didn't waste time on greetings. "She's at Northwestern Memorial. Stable but critical. Dad's handling the press on the scandal, keeping it quiet while we focus on Mom. But the moment you step off this car, people will talk again."
I stared at the passing highway. "I don't care about the talk. I just want to see her."
He nodded once. "Good. Because the family needs you to be strong right now. No running. No more Mexico."
The words landed heavy. I had come back for my mother, not for them. But already the city felt like a cage closing around me. The car pulled through the hospital's private entrance, and security nodded us through without questions. Inside, the sterile smell of antiseptic and worry hit me full force.
Julian led me down a quiet corridor to a private wing. My father stood outside the door, talking in low tones to a doctor. When he saw me his expression shifted, relief mixed with something harder, like calculation. He pulled me into a brief hug that felt more like a claim than comfort.
"She's awake," he said. "Asking for you."
I stepped into the room alone. My mother lay pale against the white sheets, monitors beeping softly beside her. Her eyes opened when she heard my footsteps, and the smile she gave me was weak but real.
"Lena," she whispered, reaching out.
I took her hand, sinking into the chair beside the bed. Tears I had held back for days finally spilled over. "I'm here, Mom. I'm right here."
She squeezed my fingers, her grip surprisingly strong. "Stay," she murmured. "Don't leave again. Not yet."
I nodded, throat tight. The machines continued their steady rhythm, but outside the window Chicago waited, scandal, family, expectations. My mother's plea anchored me to the bed like invisible chains. I had come home to say goodbye if I had to. Now it felt like the city itself was locking the door behind me.
I stayed until her eyes drifted shut again, holding her hand and wondering how long "not yet" would last. The freedom I had tasted in Mexico already felt like a dream fading in the harsh hospital light.