POV: Third-person limited — Councilman Adrian Hale
"Sir? Mr. Hale—housekeeping."
The knock came again, sharper this time, slicing through the dark. Adrian jolted awake, heart hammering, the room unfamiliar and too bright at the edges. His phone vibrated on the nightstand like a trapped insect. Once. Twice. Again. He reached for it blindly, missed, swore under his breath.
"Just—just a minute," he called, voice hoarse.
The phone didn't stop. Messages stacked, calls piled, the screen lighting the ceiling with a sickly blue pulse. Adrian sat up, the sheet sliding down his chest, the smell of expensive soap and last night's perfume still clinging to his skin. His head throbbed. His mouth tasted like regret.
He finally grabbed the phone.
CALL MISSED: 14
TEXTS: 27
VOICEMAILS: 6
The top message was from his chief of staff.
Don't answer anyone. Do NOT tweet. Turn on the news.
Adrian's stomach dropped. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet sinking into plush carpet, and looked around the suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A city waking up in glass and steel. An empty second pillow beside him, indented just enough to remind him he hadn't imagined her.
He hadn't dreamed her.
"Mr. Hale?" the voice came again, muffled through the door. "Checkout was at eleven."
"What time is it?" he asked, though he already knew.
"Eleven twenty-seven."
He ran a hand through his hair and laughed once, sharp and humorless. "Yeah. Of course it is."
The phone buzzed again. A new alert slid across the screen.
BREAKING: City Council Ethics Probe Announced
Adrian stared at the words until they blurred. He tapped the notification with a finger that suddenly felt too big, too clumsy. The article opened fast, merciless.
Anonymous complaint.
Evidence submitted overnight.
Text messages. Financial records. A witness willing to testify.
A witness.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no—"
He scrolled, frantic. Names jumped out at him like accusations. Donations he'd "misplaced." Meetings he'd sworn never happened. A shell company he'd joked about once, late, with the lights low and the city humming below them.
He remembered saying it like a boast. Like a man who believed the room belonged to him.
The knock came again. "Sir, we really need—"
"Five minutes," he snapped. "Please."
Silence. Then retreating footsteps.
Adrian dropped the phone on the bed and pressed his palms to his eyes. The room spun, then settled. He could still feel her there if he let himself—her warmth, the slow drag of her fingers along his wrist as if she were reading his pulse. He hadn't known her name at first. He hadn't asked.
She'd smiled at him across the bar, the kind of smile that suggested a secret shared in advance. He'd told himself it was harmless. A drink. A conversation. He was good at conversations.
What do you do when you're not saving the city? she'd asked, voice light, curious in a way that felt flattering, not threatening.
"I don't save it," he'd said, grinning. "I manage expectations."
She'd laughed softly, leaning closer. "That sounds lonely."
He'd felt something then—a small, sharp need to impress. "It's not lonely if you're winning."
Her eyes had held his, unblinking. "And are you?"
The memory tightened his chest. He stood and crossed to the window, dragging the curtain aside. The city looked the same as it always did—indifferent, relentless. He was used to standing above it, looking down.
Last night, he'd believed he was in control.
He'd believed the way she listened meant she admired him.
Back in the suite, the phone chimed again. Another message from his chief of staff, this one shorter.
They have recordings.
Adrian's knees weakened. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
Recordings.
The word unlocked the memory he'd been avoiding. The way she'd moved closer on the couch, knees brushing, her dress catching just enough light to be distracting. The way she'd asked questions that felt like invitations rather than interrogations.
You don't talk like a man who worries about consequences, she'd said, thumb tracing the rim of her glass.
"I worry all the time," he'd replied. "I just don't let it show."
Teach me, she'd murmured, and he'd laughed, warm with wine and attention.
Teach me.
God.
He remembered the moment his caution slipped—not all at once, but in pieces. A joke here. A confession there. The relief of being understood, or thinking he was. He remembered her asking about the foundation, about the back channels, about the way things really worked.
"You're not like them," she'd said, hand resting lightly on his knee. "You're smarter."
He'd felt seen. Desired. He'd leaned in, the space between them charged, her perfume clean and dark all at once. He told her things he'd never written down. Things he'd only ever said out loud in rooms where loyalty was assumed.
He told her about the offshore account.
He told her about the judge.
He told her why the zoning vote had gone the way it did.
The phone buzzed again, and this time he flinched hard enough to knock it to the floor. It slid under the bed. He stared at the space, breathing fast, as if it might crawl back out on its own.
"Get it together," he muttered. "Get it together."
He dropped to his knees and reached under the bed, fingers brushing dust, then plastic. He pulled the phone free and sat back, back against the mattress, staring at the screen.
Unknown number.
One new message.
For a moment, he couldn't open it. He imagined his wife's name there. A reporter. A prosecutor. Anyone but—
He tapped it.
Good morning.
That was all.
Adrian's heart raced. He typed back before he could stop himself.
Who is this?
The reply came almost immediately.
You don't remember?
His mouth went dry. He could see her again now, clearer than before—the way she'd tilted her head when she listened, as if aligning herself to him. The way she'd never interrupted, never rushed him. The way she'd smiled after he spoke, like she was savoring the aftertaste.
This isn't funny, he typed. If you're trying to—
The dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Funny isn't what I do.
Adrian pushed himself to his feet and paced, the phone clutched tight. "What do you want?" he said aloud, then typed it, thumb shaking.
What do you want?
A pause. Long enough for panic to bloom.
Then:
I wanted you to feel heard.
His laugh came out ragged. "You ruined me," he whispered.
The phone vibrated once more.
No, the message read. You did that.
He sank back onto the bed, the sheet cool against his skin. Images flickered—her fingers at his collar, her breath warm at his ear as she'd said his name like it meant something. He'd mistaken attention for affection. Curiosity for consent.
Power for safety.
You can't use this, he typed. You promised—
The response came slower this time.
I promised to listen.
A memory surfaced then, uninvited: her phone on the table, face down. He'd teased her about it.
"Secrets?" he'd asked.
She'd smiled. "Everyone has them."
Another vibration. Another message.
You talk beautifully when you think no one is keeping score.
Adrian closed his eyes. Outside, a siren wailed and faded. Somewhere below, life went on. Inside the suite, his world narrowed to the glow of the screen and the weight of what he'd given away.
The knock at the door came again, firmer. "Sir, we need you to—"
"Go away," he said, not bothering to hide the crack in his voice.
His phone buzzed one last time.
Thank you for trusting me.