Thank you for trusting me with this.
What I'm going to do below is not just edit — this is a professional tightening and elevation of Chapter One so it reads contract-ready, while:
keeping your voice
keeping the plot
deepening emotion
smoothing language
sharpening Alexander's presence
clarifying Tessa's vulnerability without weakening her
I've expanded it to be over 1,000 words, cleaned repetition, corrected grammar, strengthened pacing, and made the ending land harder for editors.
CHAPTER ONE
The One-Night Stand
The bass hit first.
It thundered through Tessa Smith's chest like a second heartbeat as she stumbled into the nightclub, neon lights slicing through darkness, bodies packed tight in a restless blur of heat, sweat, and movement. The air smelled of alcohol and perfume—sharp, sweet, reckless. The kind of place where people came to forget who they were.
That was exactly why she was here.
She pushed through the crowd and went straight to the bar.
"Tequila," she said, slapping a crumpled bill on the counter. "The strongest you've got."
The bartender glanced up, his expression practiced and unimpressed. "Rough night?"
Tessa laughed, but the sound came out wrong—too loud, too sharp, like it might crack if she stopped forcing it.
"You have no idea."
The glass slid toward her. She didn't sip. She threw it back in one motion, wincing as it burned all the way down, then shoved the empty glass forward again.
"Another."
Someone beside her let out a low whistle. "Damn. You trying to die or forget?"
Tessa turned, swaying just slightly, her eyes glassy but defiant. Three guys stood nearby, already drunk, already entertained, already looking at her like this was a show they'd paid for.
"Forget," she said. "Definitely forget."
One of them grinned. "Shots competition."
She squinted at him. "What?"
"Shots. Us versus you."
She laughed again, louder this time. "You'll lose."
That did it.
"Bartender!" one of them shouted. "Line them up!"
The glasses came fast. One. Two. Three.
"Go!"
Tessa took the first shot. Then the second. Cheers erupted around her, hands clapping, voices rising over the music.
"Again!"
She slammed the third back, her vision tilting, the room spinning just enough to make her laugh instead of panic.
"That's it," one of them said. "She's insane."
"Not done," she slurred, already reaching for the fourth.
Someone started chanting her name—even though none of them knew it.
"You're winning!"
"She's winning!"
Tessa wasn't sure what she was winning—pride, maybe, or numbness—but she didn't stop. Each shot dulled the ache lodged deep in her chest. The image of her father's stern face. The weight of his words. You'll marry him. The life already chosen for her, signed and sealed like a debt she never agreed to pay.
She lifted another glass. "To freedom."
No one questioned it. They all drank.
By the time the competition ended, she wasn't sure who'd won. She only knew her legs felt light, her head heavy, and her heart strangely quiet.
She turned away from the bar—
And that was when she saw him.
He stood a little apart from the chaos, leaning casually against a pillar, suit jacket gone, white shirt open at the collar. Dark hair, slightly disheveled. Broad shoulders. Tall. Solid. The kind of man who didn't need to try to command attention—he simply had it.
Watching her.
Not cheering. Not laughing. Just watching.
Her breath caught.
She blinked, convinced she was imagining him. But when she looked again, he was still there, his gaze locked on hers—steady, assessing, unreadable. Like he could see straight through the drunken haze and into the mess underneath.
She pointed at him. "You."
His brow lifted slightly. "Me?"
"You didn't clap."
A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. "Didn't feel necessary."
She staggered closer, the floor shifting beneath her feet. "You think you're better than us?"
"Than you?" he asked lightly, his eyes dropping—too briefly—to the curve of her mouth, the line of her neck.
"No."
She stopped in front of him, close enough to smell whiskey and something expensive. "Then why are you staring?"
He shrugged. "Curiosity."
"About?"
"You."
Her laugh softened this time. Dangerous. "I'm not that interesting."
His gaze swept over her—her loose hair, flushed cheeks, the way her dress clung to her curves. "I disagree."
She swayed and caught herself against his chest before she could fall. Solid. Warm. Unmoving.
"Oooh," she murmured, fingers curling into his shirt. "You're… built."
A quiet chuckle vibrated beneath her hands as his arm came around her instinctively, steadying her.
"Careful," he said. "You might hurt yourself."
She tilted her head, lashes heavy, eyes dark and searching. "You afraid I'll break you?"
"Hardly."
He was still holding her up, like letting go wasn't an option.
She dragged her gaze slowly down his body—broad chest, strong arms, the kind of physique shaped by discipline, not accident.
"You work out," she said.
"Sometimes."
She leaned closer, lowering her voice. "You look like trouble."
"And you," he replied, his gaze sharpening, "look like someone who knows exactly what she's doing."
She didn't correct him.
She smiled instead. "Buy me a drink."
He glanced toward the bar. "You've had enough."
She pouted. "Scared?"
He held her gaze for a long moment, then sighed. "One."
"Yes!" She threw her hands up in exaggerated victory.
They stood at the bar, shoulders brushing, the contact sending a strange heat through her.
"Your name?" she asked.
He hesitated. "Alex."
She grinned. "I'm—"
The name stuck in her throat.
Names meant reality. And she didn't want reality tonight.
She shook her head. "Doesn't matter."
He studied her carefully. "You sure?"
"Tonight?" She met his eyes. "Yes."
Something shifted in his expression. A decision.
"You working?" he asked casually.
She frowned. "Working? No…"
He nodded toward her dress. "I don't usually pick women up at clubs."
Her laugh burst out, unfiltered. "You think I'm—?"
He shrugged. "You're flirting. You're drunk. You're confident."
"You're unbelievable."
"Am I wrong?"
She leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "Very."
But she didn't pull away.
He hesitated only a second before placing a hand at her lower back. Firm. Possessive.
"Come with me," he said.
"Where?"
"Trust me."
She should have said no.
Instead, she nodded.
The car ride blurred into streaks of city lights and laughter, her head resting against the window, his presence filling the space beside her.
"Where are we going?" she asked again.
"My place."
She smiled lazily. "Of course it is."
The apartment was massive. Quiet. Expensive in a way that didn't need to announce itself.
She kicked off her shoes, wobbling slightly. "Wow."
He watched her as she turned back to him, hair loose around her shoulders, eyes bright and reckless.
"You're beautiful," he said before he could stop himself.
Her smile softened. "You think so?"
"I know so."
She reached for him.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was hungry and unguarded, her fingers sliding into his hair as she pressed closer, gasping softly when his hands tightened at her waist.
"You're not like the others," he murmured.
She didn't ask what he meant. She didn't care.
For Alexander Reid, it was unlike anything he'd known—no pretense, no calculation. Just heat and connection and something dangerously close to intimacy.
For Tessa, it was escape.
The best night of his life.
The most reckless of hers.
Sunlight burned through her eyelids.
Tessa groaned, clutching her head as she rolled over—and froze.
This wasn't her bed.
The sheets were too soft. The room was too large. The air smelled unfamiliar.
Her heart slammed as memories crashed back all at once.
The club. The drinks. The man.
Slowly, she sat up.
And that was when she realized—
She was in a stranger's house.
And she had no idea who he really was.