Signed To The Ruthless CEO

Oh-no... no, no, no!"

The scream tore from Valerie's throat before she could even blink . Her head didn't just ache; it throbbed violently, as if her skull were a drum being beaten . Every nerve sending a raw ache , and screaming with a sharp, relentless pain that refused to stop.

Where am I ? Please, God, what did I do?

She tried to push herself upright, but her muscles protested. The room didn't just spin; it made her feel nauseous. As her vision finally cleared, her breath dry, then died in her throat.

Clothes-her favourite dress, now nothing more than pieces of fabric-were scattered across the cold floor. They were torn, crumpled, and utterly ruined. A cold shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature raced down her spine as the weight of her nakedness hit her. Her skin was a design of aftermath: dark, fingerprint-shaped bruises evident on her pale flesh, and angry red hickeys formed designs across her neck, her shoulders, and the soft curve of her thighs.

She looked wreaked. Used. Wretched. And then she saw it-the faint, unmistakable traces of blood staining the white bedsheet beneath her.

Her heart didn't just skip a beat; it seemed to stop entirely, leaving a empty space in her chest.

Valerie tried to stand, but her legs were like water, wobbling violently as they threatened to betray her. Her fingers trembled so hard she could barely grip the edge of the nightstand for support. Every excruciating step toward the bathroom sent a fresh jolt of sharp pain through her body. The realization hit her like a physical blow: this had been her first time.

And she couldn't remember a single second of it.

Tears escaped, hot and stinging, rolling freely as she fumbled with the shower handle. The spray of hot water brutal on her skin, but it couldn't loosen the cold knot of shame and guilt tightening in her stomach Fear and regret were a poisonous cocktail in her veins. She cursed her own mind for the blank spaces, the void where memories should be.

The only thing she had left was the memory of the club.

The loud bass. The colourful lights. The burn of cheap alcohol sliding down her throat, a desperate attempt to cauterize the wound in her heart.

She had gone there to drown her world. Her ex-boyfriend hadn't just broken up with her on her birthday; he had used the occasion to announce his engagement to her stepsister, Claire.

My birthday. The universe wasn't just cruel; it was against her.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom, the steam had offered a small measure of relief and comfort, though the dull ache in her bones remained. Her original clothes were a lost cause. She scavenged through the hotel wardrobe and found a white shirt and a pair of long black pants-likely left behind or provided by the suite. She didn't care about the fit or the fashion. She dressed with speed,