If this is a dream, I never, ever want to wake up. The world felt softer, the colors more vibrant, as if I were viewing everything through a gilded filter bestowed upon me by his attention.
Last night, the Rolls-Royce had glided through the sleeping city like a phantom, delivering me back to my modest apartment building. The bodyguard hadn't just opened my door; he had emerged from the shadowy SUV and walked me all the way to my front door, a silent, imposing sentinel ensuring I was safely locked inside before melting back into the night. I felt like Cinderella returning from the ball, half-expecting my burgundy dress to turn back into rags and the pumpkin-shaped Hyundai in the parking lot to be my only coach.
I unlocked my door with a dazed smile still plastered on my face—a stark contrast to the anxious wreck who had left just hours earlier. The moment the lock clicked shut, the sheer, unadulterated reality of the night hit me with the force of a tidal wave. I floated to my room, my movements slow and reverent, placing Carlos's impeccably tailored suit jacket on my duvet as if it were a holy relic. Peeling off the beautiful but constricting burgundy dress, I felt like I was shedding a skin, transitioning from the woman who had dined with a king back to the girl who paid her own water bill.
In the bathroom, I wiped away the flawless, dewy makeup with precision. The remnants of the plump, glossy Bratz lip combo disappeared onto cotton pads, revealing the flushed, excited face underneath—my own face, but lit from within by a new, incandescent joy. I went through my ten-step skincare routine on autopilot, my mind a whirlwind cinema replaying every glorious second: the breathtaking emptiness of Vesper, the rich, unexpected sound of his laugh, the searing, possessive feel of his hand in mine as we left.
And then, I did it. I picked up his suit jacket from where it lay, a pool of midnight wool against my pale bedding. It was heavy, substantial, and impossibly soft between my fingers. Bringing it to my face, I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. His scent—that intoxicating, expensive blend of sandalwood, amber, and something uniquely, undeniably Carlos—wrapped around me, a phantom embrace. I didn't even think twice, all self-consciousness erased by the late hour and the lingering magic. I slipped my arms into the massive sleeves, the luxurious fabric swallowing my frame and falling well past my fingertips. It was the most expensive, most meaningful sleepwear I'd ever owned. Cocooned in his smell and the memory of his touch, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, the most peaceful I'd had in years.
Now, morning light streamed into my room, painting gold stripes across the floor, and I was sitting cross-legged on my bed, the jacket pooled in my lap like a sleeping cat. In the harsh light of day, a wave of regretful embarrassment washed over me. Why did I do that? It felt insanely clingy, borderline creepy. What if he had some kind of sixth sense for this sort of thing? What if he could somehow tell I'd used his expensive jacket as a security blanket? I groaned, burying my face in the very same soft wool, my cheeks burning.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand, a lifeline from the real world. It was Maya. I answered on the first ring.
"Bitchhhh, you are officially messyyyy!" her voice screeched through the speaker, loud enough to shatter my morning daze. "Why did I not get a single 'I'm home safe' text? Not even a solitary heart emoji? Was the date so cosmically good it fried your brain? Spill. Every single detail. Now."
I couldn't help the giddy, breathless laugh that escaped me. It was the laugh of a woman who had been utterly disarmed. "Yeah, M. It was… the best date I've ever been on. He left me speechless throughout the entire thing, and honestly, I'm still speechless now. That's all I have to say."
"Wow. Okay, enigmatic queen. I need more deets and you know that. Come over. We can have a sleepover like the old days. I need a full, scene-by-scene breakdown, complete with a transcript of his dialogue and a description of his cutlery."
"Sure," I said, my smile fading as the other, heavier reason for my visit settled in my stomach like a stone of chilled granite. "I have… a lot to tell you."
---
Driving straight from my final meeting at Zalira to Maya's townhouse, I was running on pure adrenaline and caffeine fumes. I'd finally closed up the project at 7:20 PM, my body tired but my spirit still buzzing from the night before. I didn't mind the late hour. Maya was my girl, my anchor. And I had a confession weighing on my soul that I could no longer carry alone.
I cruised slowly through her neighborhood, admiring the elegant facades and perfectly manicured lawns under the warm glow of the streetlights. I loved my cozy apartment, but there was something about this tree-lined side of town that felt like a serene sanctuary, a world away from my own bustling block. I slowed my sleek Audi A5—a car I'd worked hard for and was immensely proud of—and parked neatly beside her SUV.
Climbing out, I slung my Saint Laurent bag over my shoulder, my phone clutched tightly in my hand like a talisman. As I walked toward her familiar front door, the rose-gold device vibrated. An unknown number. My heart did a foolish, hopeful little skip, a Pavlovian response thinking it might be Carlos.
I answered quickly, a smile already touching my lips. "Hello?"
But it wasn't Carlos's smooth, commanding baritone. It was Austin's voice, strained and hurried, crackling with static. "Hannah, thank God. We need your help again. It's the final render, it's completely—"
A cold dread, entirely separate from the Maya situation, washed over me. "What is it this time, Austin?" I asked, my voice tight with impatience as I pushed open Maya's front door, not bothering to knock. We were past that.
The sight that hit me was so bizarre, so utterly disorienting, it took my brain a full second to process. Killian was on his knees on the plush living room rug. Maya was standing in front of him, her back to me. For one insane, heart-stopping moment, my mind, addled by fatigue and hope, constructed a fantasy: He's proposing. He's making a grand gesture.
"What in the world?" I whispered, the words escaping my lips before I could stop them, my voice barely audible. I let the door slam shut behind me, the sound like a gunshot in the tense room.
"Hannah? Can you hear me?" Austin's tinny, frantic voice came from the phone I'd forgotten was pressed to my ear.
I didn't answer him. My thumb moved on its own, ending the call, my eyes locked on the surreal scene unfolding before me. My protective instincts roared to life, cold and sharp.
"Killian, get out," I said, my voice low and venomous, each word dipped in ice. "Get out right now."
That's when Maya turned to look at me. Her face was a tragic masterpiece of streaked mascara, her eyes swollen and bloodshot from crying. But the look she gave me wasn't one of gratitude for the interruption. It was pure, unadulterated hurt, a betrayal so deep it stole the air from my lungs.
"Why didn't you tell me, Han?" The question was quiet, a shattered whisper, but it hit me harder than a scream ever could.
Before I could form a response, a pathetic excuse caught in my throat, she shoved past Killian, who was still kneeling in his pathetic performance, and stormed down the hallway. A second later, I heard her bedroom door slam with a bang that seemed to shake the very foundations of the house.
"Get out of here, you pathetic, lying snake," I spat at Killian, all my fury and disgust now directed squarely at him.
He slowly got to his feet, brushing imaginary dust from his jeans, a nasty, mocking laugh bubbling out of him. "Oh, screw you, Hannah. You always have to be the hero, don't you? You just can't stand to see her happy with anyone but you."
"Happy?" I choked out a disbelieving, humorless laugh. "You have a profoundly twisted definition of happy."
He shouldered past me, his body language all aggressive petulance, yanked the front door open, and left, slamming it behind him with a force that perfectly echoed Maya's.
I didn't have the energy to spare for his poisonous words. I turned and rushed down the hall to Maya's room. The door was locked, a solid, unforgiving barrier.
"Maya," I called, knocking softly, my forehead nearly touching the cool wood. "It's me. Please, open up. Let me in."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice was muffled by the door, thick with a fresh wave of tears. The sound broke my heart.
"I know, and I am so, so sorry. I was going to tell you," I pleaded, my own eyes welling up. "I was coming here tonight to tell you everything."
"When, Hannah? When?" The hurt in her voice was a physical ache, a blade twisting in my gut. "When were you going to tell me that you knew he was going to propose to me tonight?"
The word—propose—hit me like a physical punch, knocking the wind out of me. The image of him on his knees snapped into a new, horrifying, manipulative focus. He hadn't been apologizing for his infidelity; he'd been constructing a lie to cover it, using the promise of a future to blind her to the filth of the past.
That was it. The line had been crossed. The truth could no longer be polite.
"Absolutely not," I said, my voice shaking with a rage so pure it felt clean. "I refuse to let you believe that lie for one more second. Maya, I saw him. I came over last week to surprise you and I saw Killian with another girl. Right here. On your couch."
The silence from the other side of the door was absolute, profound, and terrifying.
"There," I said, my own tears finally falling, hot and salty. "I said it."
A beat of silence, and then the sharp, definitive click of the lock. The door swung open to reveal Maya, her face a pale mask of shock, streaked with the evidence of her grief, her eyes wide with a horrifying blend of devastation and dawning, awful understanding.
"What," she breathed, the word barely a whisper, "did you just say?"