Devon woke up on the bed of an unfamiliar room, his head throbbing vigorously.

One thing was clear however, he was in a hotel room, but for what exact reason had he come here for? He asked himself.

He tried leaning on his back, while trying to recall the events that lead to him waking up here. After a moment or two, memories of what lead to him spending the night here, came flooding like a wave through his mind.

The other night had been a really wild one, literally speaking. He had gotten drunk and had come here with—his eyes opened wildly. He had come here with the guy he met at the bar last night.

Devon turned to the other side of the bed but found no one. Surely, there had been someone else with him last night.

He got out of bed, head still throbbing, wanting to take a wash and then discovered that all he had on was just his underwear. Then it really dawned on him. If he was half naked then it only meant one thing.

"No, no, no, no, no!" He muttered.

He had brought this stranger, here to this hotel room last night, even though he was gone now.

They had kissed so passionatelty; the two bodies wrapped around each other. One moaned out loud while the other kept worshipping it.

They were unable to control their desire and spent the remainder of the night together, drawing each other deeper and deeper into a puddle of lust.

Father had been the cause of this. He thought. Mr. Benjamin Hamilton had been the cause of this... this mess he just got himself into.

And truly Mr. Hamilton had been. Devon went to that bar, wanting to get drunk, to get free from the confines of being an only child and heir of his father... to get completely wasted.

And it wasn't even the prospect of him getting in bed with a total stranger that left him perplexed, no. That wasn't the case. It was the fact that the person he got in bed with last night, was a man, a man about the same age as himself.

Does this now mean that he is by any chance, gay? He asked himself, unsure of what to believe at the moment.

No! That couldn't be; this really couldn't be happening. He is straight and that was it. Whatever had happened the previous night certainly was a mistake, a misunderstanding and would remain that way.

Devon scanned the entire room for his clothes and other personal belongings, and found every of them scattered throughout the room.

He picked up his trousers from where it had been left, then with the other hand, picked up his shirt. He found his wallet, his business card, bank cards, keys and some cash on the table, all accounted for. Nothing was missing, but still he felt incomplete.

Nahh! Scratch that sentence already, something was indeed missing. His luxurious Vecherron Comstatin wristwatch, valued at $5 million was no where—oh! There it was, neatly kept on the table beside the bed.

He retrieved the wristwatch from the table and with that, dressed up and left the hotel.

All the while as he drove home, Devon couldn't really think straight. He couldn't get his mind off the events of the previous night and the possible scandal that could result from it.

Every event replayed itself repeatedly. Every of them— like paragraphs of some urban novel, or some scene from a twisted romance movie.

Thankfully, this stranger hadn't been there in the hotel when he woke up this morning. He thought. How would he have faced him? What would he have said?

Devon couldn't help but let out a deep sigh. All these were the repercussions of his actions, after all he had acted so stupidly.

Hopefully, he wouldn't get to see him anymore. Since they didn't get to exchange contacts or pleasantries—as far as he could remember. Moreover, his wallet had been in the exact same spot he had flung it last night, along with other personal items of his.

He took out his phone, and unlocked it. There were no calls or messages, nor were there any email notifications on the screen, and the flight mode he had activated earlier at the bar was still active.

It was during times like this that the disabled face ID on his phone security served him better. He remembered deactivating it the day he woke up to see his father seated beside him, scrolling through his messages.

This was of course, a long time ago. As someone who valued privacy, even as a child, he had immediately deactivated facial recognition, switching it to an eight-digit PIN to unlock his phone.

But even so, he clicked on the contact icon, just in case. He spent some time scrolling through the displayed list of contacts, call logs and even, checking for deleted ones.

Suffice to say that he was satisfied, after finding nothing suspicious. He let out a sigh of relief. There was no way for that man— whoever he was, to contact him.

Now, he could head home in peace. He was ravenously famished, and could only hope that Mrs. Pearl had prepared one of those her lovely rice cakes she occasionally prepared with oats some mornings.

Devon had lost his mother during child birth, and never got to meet her. He was raised by nannies, special home tutors and the maids who were all hired by his father to take care of him.

Mr. Hamilton, in all his evil deeds, had blatantly refused to take another wife after Laura Hamilton, Devon's mother, had passed away. Proclaiming that she was and would remain his only lover.

Mrs. Pearl wasn't just the house manager to the Hamiltons. She was a maid, a cook, his nanny and the closest thing he had to a mother. She had been with them for as long as he could remember, and though she was a worker. She was often regarded as family.

After a about thirty minutes of driving, Devon finally arrived at the gates of the Hamilton Manor.

The gates were opened upon his arrival, and he drove in straight to the parking garage.

"Oh!" He exclaimed softly. How he had longed for home.

He needed a shower, a shave, and most importantly a good breakfast— one which Mrs. Pearl was undoubtedly, more than capable of preparing.

But just as he stepped out of his black Mercedes-AMG E-Class, he was met with his father's piercing stare.

"Where the hell have you been?" his father demanded, standing by the front entrance, his face twisted in anger, his eyes cold.

Devon didn’t sleep the night he returned home.

He had tried, God, he had tried. But no amount of warm showers or herbal tea could undo the events of that night or silence the memory of lips he couldn’t forget. Every time he closed his eyes, flashes returned: the man’s breath hot on his skin, their bodies tangled beneath hotel sheets, the rush and shame bleeding into one another like ink in water.

Now, three days later, he sat on the edge of his bed, fully dressed in a navy button-down and slacks, staring blankly at his phone. No texts. No missed calls. No strange numbers.

A relief. Supposedly.

He’d combed through his device multiple times, just in case. The contact list was clean. Deleted messages: nothing unusual. His wallet had all its contents, his cards untouched, his wristwatch unscathed. Whoever the man was—he’d vanished cleanly, like a ghost who’d only borrowed the night.

But the ghost had left a mark.

Devon rose, crossing to the tall window that overlooked the Hamilton estate’s eastern lawn. Sunlight streaked across the trimmed hedges and gravel walkways, where gardeners moved with quiet purpose. Everything about this place screamed order, perfection, and legacy.

Legacy. That word again.

He rested his forehead against the glass. In forty-eight hours, he would be engaged. To Anabelle Lawson. A woman he barely knew beyond rehearsed smiles and polite conversation. She was beautiful, sure. Cultured. Daughter of a man his father respected—a rare feat in itself. But none of that changed the truth: Devon had no idea who he was supposed to be when he stood beside her.

A loyal fiancé?

A Hamilton heir?

A man who woke up tangled in hotel sheets with another man?

He shut his eyes tightly.

“This didn’t mean anything,” he whispered aloud. “It was a mistake.”

That night had been about rebellion, about escaping his father’s expectations, about losing himself in something reckless and stupid. It hadn’t been about desire. Or identity. Or anything deeper than the bitter taste of whiskey and the heat of skin against skin.

But deep down, Devon knew better.

It wasn’t the physical act that haunted him. It was the way he had responded to it. How easily it had all happened. How natural it had felt. That terrified him more than the possibility of scandal or exposure.

A knock sounded at the door.

“Devon?” came Mrs. Pearl’s voice, muffled but warm. “Breakfast is ready.”

He cleared his throat. “Coming.”

The dining room was quiet when he entered. Mrs. Pearl had already laid out breakfast, French toast, scrambled eggs, berry preserves. His father wasn’t there, of course. Mr. Hamilton rarely joined meals unless there was someone to impress or berate.

Devon sat down and picked at his food.

Mrs. Pearl hovered nearby, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ve been quiet lately,” she said gently. “Is it the party?”

He offered a faint smile. “Something like that.”

She paused, then walked over and touched his shoulder lightly. “Whatever it is, don’t carry it alone, dear.”

He glanced up at her, grateful for the words, but unsure how to respond. If she knew… God, if anyone knew…

“I’ll be fine,” he said instead. “Thank you.”

By late afternoon, the house was a flurry of movement. Caterers arrived for the engagement party walkthrough. Florists delivered massive arrangements of cream roses and eucalyptus branches. A string quartet rehearsed in the main hall. Staff bustled between the kitchen and ballroom, setting up polished silverware and crystal flutes.

Devon wandered the estate like a ghost in his own home.

He passed through the library, the solarium, the west hall, all places he’d known since childhood, feeling like a stranger everywhere he turned. Everyone else seemed excited for the big day. Only he carried the weight of pretending.

When he passed the mirror in the gallery hallway, he paused.

His reflection stared back: tall, composed, expensively dressed.

He looked like his father.

The thought chilled him.

That night, he stood on the balcony outside his bedroom, watching the moon rise above the Hamilton gardens. His phone sat beside him on the stone ledge. Silent. Still nothing.

He told himself again that this was a good thing.

There were no calls, no consequences, zero messes to clean up.

But there however was a strange tightness in his chest, one he couldn’t name. Could be regret, or maybe longing. Or even just the aching knowledge that what he wanted—what he truly wanted—had never been his to want in the first place.

He took a long breath and then picked up his phone.

He almost texted Anabelle. Just to say something, anything. But what would he even write?

> “Looking forward to the engagement?”

Felt too hollow.

> “We should talk.”

This one was kinda too serious.

> “Do you even want this?”

Too honest.

And in the end, he locked the phone and set it back down.

A breeze swept across the balcony, and Devon closed his eyes, letting it brush against his face like a whisper.

In a few days time, he would be standing under crystal chandeliers, surrounded by applause and praise. He would smile, take Anabelle’s hand, and pretend like he was exactly where he was meant to be.

And he would forget the stranger. He had to.

One Week.

One week had gone past since the incident at the hotel, but still he hadn't received any strange texts or calls from an unknown caller.

Devon felt a bit relaxed now, knowing that the stranger from the bar— whoever he was, had no way to contact him. Because if he did, he most definitely would have contacted him by now, making one reckless demand or the other due to his status.

"Happy birthday, Devon." A middle-aged woman said, as she approached him, along with her husband.

Today was indeed his long awaited 26th year birthday, and also the engagement ceremony of him and Anabelle Lawson.

Father had thrown a lavish party to celebrate it— one too lavish for his liking however, and had invited a reasonable amount of highly reputable guests from the business world. Some of the city's politicians and some government officials were also in attendance too.

"I brought you a gift." She added, showing him a relatively small rectangular box, before extending her hands to hug Devon.

"Mrs. Caspian," Devon said as he too stretched out his hands to hug the lady in front of him. "Are they the usual?"

"You bet they are," She said curling her lips, as if she was speaking to some little child. "You know your aunty never misses."

"Oh, of course I do." Devon replied and they all laughed.

"Happy birthday once again, and happy engagement. Anabelle is such a good girl, how come you never mentioned her to me?" She said lightly slapping his arm. "Anyways, you made a very beautiful choice."

Devon could do nothing both smile when she made that statement. They all thought that his soon to be wife had been his choice? He thought.

"Yah! Happy birthday, lad." Her husband said smiling, with his unmistakable Irish ascent as he too stretched out a present to Devon.

"And of course, engagement." He added, as he hugged Devon, patting him on the back as he did.

"Thank you, Mr. Caspian. I am more than honoured."

"Oh please..! How many times do I have to tell you? It's Andrew." He said smiling then turned to leave but then returned almost immediately as if he had forgotten something important, holding a finger up as he did.

"And oh! Welcome to the hell." He whispered with a wink before leaving.

Devon didn't get the joke at first, there were too many things crowding his mind at the moment, so he just feigned a laugh. But when he did get the joke some moments later, he laughed harder.

How ironic? He thought.

This was indeed what he was walking into at the moment— Hell. He was about to be married to some 'beautiful' girl picked and arranged for him, by his dear beloved father. A girl he knew nothing about, except from the fact that her family was wealthy— well, barely as wealthy as they were.

Oh, wow! He knew two things about her, not just one.

He scanned the large room for his father— considering he was standing right in the middle of the hall, Like some goods on display, waiting to be sold to the right buyer, and saw him standing at a corner with some guests.

Everyone gathered here was either his father's business associate or a person of importance, all there to witness not his birthday, but his engagement to a Lawson - an arrangement to strengthen the two families.

Such unions, whether arranged or otherwise, brought families closer together. He reckoned.

Currently, he was surrounded by a mountain of gifts in various sizes, wrapped in colorful paper, the accumulation of presents he'd received since the evening began."

Just then, he saw Madame Evelyn Carter coming his way, her son walking together with her as she did. Hands interlocked in a couple-like manner, with a bigger man who wearing sunglasses behind the pair.

"Oh, Devon!" She said kissing him by the cheeks. "Happy birthday.

"This is your 26th, am I correct?"

"Yes, Ma'am." Devon replied, smiling.

"Ah! How fast you little ones grow, these days." She said with a chuckle. And oh! Where is your fiancée?"

"S—she must be around somewhere." Devon stuttered, obviously having no idea of where Anabelle was.

"Oh, poor thing. I had hope to see her." She said fanning herself. "Anyways, I will be taking my leave now. Got some business to take care of. Stop by the mansion sometime, would you?"

"Most definitely, Ma'am. I would."

"See you around then?" Bryan said, before turning to leave with his mother.

"Yeah, see you around." Devon replied.

"And before I forget," Madame Evelyn said, stopping midway. "The gray Porsche parked outside is yours. Don't go crashing her within a week, I know how you boys can get with cars." And with that she left graciously.

Devon couldn't help but smile as she did.

Well... that was enough standing for today. He needed to get a drink now. After all, today was his birthday and also his engagement to one of the most beautiful women in the city.

He walked down to the pub area where a live jazz band was and then ordered for a glass of wine. The musical band, a quartet with a cello, viola, and two violins, was playing a lively rendition of 'Fly Me to the Moon'.

Taking the glass of wine, he scanned the area once more. The smooth, soulful notes filled the air, mingling with the hum of conversation and clinking glasses.

Where was she? He thought, one hand in his pockets, the other holding the glass of Château Lafite Rothschild from which he took a sip.

Anabelle had indeed been with him earlier that evening, but had left after a while.

"Happy engagement." He heard someone say some metres away, with a "Thank you very much." accompanying it.

He turned to face the direction which the compliment had came from and he saw her. Dressed in a simple yet, beautifully tailored black dress, walking graciously towards him.

She was... beautiful, indeed. He thought, as he took another sip from his glass. He also noticed someone else with her, as she approached.

There were applauds from the crowd, as the live musical band finished their presentation, and he too turned to clap for them.

"Hey," Anabelle whispered amidst the clapping, on getting to where he stood, causing him to turn to her.

"Hey." He replied turning to her.

"Sorry, I was gone for long."

"It—it's totally fine, honestly." Devon responded as took another sip from the glass, still staring at her.

"Uhh... ok...." She replied, clearly she had expected to be a bit angry when she returned, but he wasn't. "You sure about that?"

"Yeah." Devon replied, nodding his head in agreement. "Yeah, I am."

"Ok. Well... meet my brother, then." She said shifting to the side to reveal the person standing behind her.

Devon almost choked on his wine when he saw who it was. Was this some kind of joke? He thought.

"Damian, meet Devon. Devon... Damian." She continued, her voice smooth as silk.

Right in front of him stood the man he'd met at the bar that fateful night. And what's more? He was his fiancée's brother.

"Hello, Devon." Damian said smiling, as he extending a handshake to him. "Nice to meet you...

...For the first time."