Wrong Room, Right Daddy
Description
Five years after fleeing New York with a secret that destroyed her life, Elara Brooks returns as the executive assistant to a cold, magnetic CEO-only to realize he's the stranger she accidentally slept with the night she was drugged, the father of the triplets she raised alone. Her ex-boyfriend, Michael, now an investor engaged to the best friend who betrayed them both, walks back into her world the same day. Bound by guilt, lies, and a night none of them fully remember, Elara is forced to face the past she buried. As Aiden sharpens his focus on her and Michael unravels the truth, the three lives collide. Some secrets create families. Other secrets destroy them.
Chapter 1
Jan 4, 2026
Elara’s POV
The hotel bar glittered with fairy lights and too much champagne, and I was exactly where I wanted to be—tucked into Michael's side in a corner booth while Columbus twinkled through the windows.
Two years. Two years of this man, and my chest still did that stupid fluttery thing every time he pulled me closer.
"To putting up with this idiot for twenty-four whole months," Sienna announced, raising her glass for what had to be the fifth toast of the night. Her red lips curved into that familiar teasing grin. "Honestly, Elara, I don't know how you do it."
Michael laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my shoulder. "Says the woman who's crashed every date night since sophomore year."
"Someone has to document the romance for posterity." Sienna winked at me. "Besides, you two would be bored without me."
She wasn't wrong. The three of us had been inseparable since elementary school—Sienna and I, braiding each other's hair at sleepovers, Michael the neighborhood boy who carried my books and pretended he didn't have a crush on me for six years.
When he finally kissed me junior year of college, Sienna had orchestrated the whole thing. So of course she was here now, celebrating our anniversary at this fancy hotel we'd splurged on.
"Drink up, lovebirds." She slid another glass toward me. "The night is young and so are we."
I took a long sip, the bubbles fizzing against my tongue. The warmth spreading through my limbs felt nice—loose and golden, matching the lights strung above us.
Michael's thumb traced circles on my hip, and when I looked up at him, his eyes held that look. The one that made my pulse skip.
"You ready to head back to the room?" His voice dropped low, just for me.
My cheeks flushed. Tonight.
We'd talked about it, danced around it for months. I wanted him to be my first—had always wanted it to be him. "Yeah. I think I am."
Sienna made a dramatic gagging sound. "And that's my cue to order another martini. You kids have fun."
The elevator ride was a blur of giggles and wandering hands. I leaned into Michael, the hallway tilting slightly as we walked, and he steadied me with gentle fingers on my waist. "You okay, El?"
"Perfect." The word came out syrupy. "Just nervous. Good, nervous."
He'd decorated the room himself—candles flickering on every surface, rose petals scattered across white sheets. My heart clenched at the effort, at how well he knew me, at how safe I felt with him.
This was right. He was right.
"I love you," I whispered as he lowered me onto the bed.
"I love you too." His kiss was tender, careful, everything a first time should be. "We can stop whenever you want."
I pulled him closer instead.
His fingers found the zipper at my back, sliding it down slowly while his mouth traced my collarbone. I arched into him, my hands fumbling with his buttons, desperate to feel his skin against mine.
When the fabric finally fell away, he looked at me with such reverence that tears pricked my eyes. His hands trembled as they explored, mapping every curve, every breath, every soft sound that escaped my lips.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured against my throat. "So perfect."
I pulled him down, wrapping myself around him, ready to give him everything I'd been saving. The first brush of him against my core made me gasp, and he paused, searching my face.
I nodded, and he pressed forward slowly, filling me inch by inch until I couldn't tell where I ended and he began. But something shifted. His movements grew abrupt, his breathing uneven.
He pulled back, pressing a hand to his forehead, confusion clouding his features.
"I don't…" He blinked hard. "Something's wrong. I can't—"
"Michael?" I reached for him, but he was already stumbling toward the door.
"Need air. I need to call.. Someone. Sorry…" He fumbled with the handle. "Stay here. I'll be right back."
The door clicked shut, and I sank into the pillows, my head swimming. The candles flickered shadows across the ceiling, and I tried to focus on them, tried to anchor myself to something solid.
Just nerves. Just the champagne. He'd be back in a minute.
A few minutes later the door opened again.
His silhouette filled the frame—familiar broad shoulders and height. The familiar scent of his cologne washed over me as he moved closer, and relief flooded my chest.
"Michael, is everything fine?"
He didn't answer with words. When he reached me his mouth found mine, hungrier than before, and the kiss tasted different—deeper, more demanding. My thoughts scattered as his hands gripped my hips, pulling me against him with an urgency that stole my breath.
"You taste so good," he growled against my lips.
Something about his voice seemed rougher now, but I was too far gone to question it.
This time, there was no hesitation. He kissed down my body with devastating focus, his tongue tracing paths that made me writhe beneath him.
When he finally settled between my thighs, I cried out, my fingers tangling in his hair as his mouth gave me wave after wave of pleasure. He didn't stop until I shattered completely, gasping his name into the candlelit darkness.
Then he was above me again, and when he pushed inside, I felt the difference—fuller, thicker, stretching me in ways that bordered on pain and pleasure. He set a relentless rhythm, his hips snapping against mine, driving deeper with every thrust.
I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer, matching his intensity with my own desperate need.
"More," I begged, and he gave me exactly that.
He flipped me onto my stomach, pulling my hips up to meet him, and the new angle made me see stars. His chest pressed against my back, his teeth grazing my shoulder, his fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves as he drove into me again and again.
The pleasure built impossibly higher until I broke apart with a scream, and he followed moments later, pulsing deep inside me.
In the trembling aftermath, a laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in my chest—overwhelmed, delirious, drunk on the sheer impossibility of this much happiness.
Afterward, I curled into his chest, boneless and sated, listening to his heartbeat steady beneath my ear. Safe. Protected. Exactly where I belonged. Sleep pulled me under before I could say the words hovering on my tongue.
Morning light sliced through the curtains.
I stirred slowly, a contented sound catching in my throat as I reached across the sheets. My fingers sought the familiar curve of Michael's shoulder, the warmth of his skin. And froze.
The body beside me was wrong. The muscle beneath my palm—too hard, too unfamiliar. My eyes snapped open, focusing on the pillow next to mine, and my heart stopped beating entirely.
Sharp jaw. Dark hair. A face I had never seen before.
The man sleeping peacefully beside me was a stranger.
My lungs forgot how to work. I lay paralyzed, staring at the profile of someone I didn't know, someone whose bed I was naked in, someone who was definitely, absolutely, horrifyingly not Michael.
The room spun. Bile rose in my throat.
I didn't wait for him to wake. I didn't dare breathe. With trembling hands, I slipped from the sheets, snatching the first clothes I could find, shoes that pinched my feet.
The stranger shifted, mumbling something in his sleep, and I bit down on my tongue hard enough to taste copper.
The hotel hallway was too bright, too quiet. I walked fast, then faster, until I was running—past the elevators, down the emergency stairs, through the lobby where a concierge called after me.
My heels clattered against marble, against concrete, against pavement slick with last night's rain.
I didn't stop until I couldn't breathe.
Somewhere in the gray Ohio dawn, pressed against a brick wall behind the hotel, I finally let myself understand what had happened.
I'd given myself to someone. Someone who wasn't Michael.
And I had no idea who he was.
Wrong Room, Right Daddy
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