CHAPTER 2
✧༺✰༻✧
❦𝓦𝓱𝓸 𝓐𝓻𝓮 𝓨𝓸𝓾❦
The next morning came too fast.
Salma woke to a thin line of sunlight cutting through the curtains and slicing across the bed. Her head pounded. Her mouth was dry. For a few long seconds, she didn't know where she was.
Then it all came back in pieces.
The club. The hotel hallway. The open door. His voice. His hands. Her pulling him down, not thinking, not caring. Heat. Breath. Skin. Her moans.
She went still.
Someone was in the bed beside her.
She turned her head just enough to see a shoulder, a chest, the slow rise and fall of steady sleep. His hair fell over his face like a dark curtain, hiding him. She could not see his eyes. She could only see his mouth and red flame like tattoo on his shoulder. His physic. Strong. Calm. Real.
Her stomach clenched.
They had slept together. There was no pretending otherwise. Her dress lay on a chair. Her jewelry was scattered on the carpet. The sheets were a mess. The room smelled like cologne and warm skin. Her body ached in a way that told the truth.
Shame rushed up her throat.
Salma sat up slowly, careful not to shake the mattress. Her head throbbed harder when she moved. She pressed her fingers to her temples and breathed. In. Out. Quiet. Slow.
Don't look at him. Don't look at his face. If you look, you'll never forget, she thought.
She stood and found her dress. The zipper stuck for a second, and she almost swore out loud. She forced it up, blinked back heat behind her eyes, and slipped on her jewelry with shaking hands. Her veil was gone. She didn't want to know where it had landed.
For one second, she glanced back.
His hair still covered his face. A shadow cut across his jaw. The rest of him was hidden. He looked peaceful. Untouched by the storm she carried.
Her pulse kicked hard.
No. Leave. Go now.
She reached the door and eased it open. The hinge gave a small sound. He shifted on the bed but didn't wake.
She stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her. The click sounded louder than it should have.
Salma stood there, breathing, the corridor quiet and empty. The hotel smelled like lemon polish and money. The carpet swallowed the sound of her heels as she moved for the elevator.
Her hands were still shaking when the doors slid shut.
She stared at herself in the mirror panel. Mascara smudged. Hair tangled. A stranger looked back at her—someone reckless, someone she didn't recognize, someone who had made a choice in the dark and now wanted to hide from it.
"Stupid," she whispered. "So, so stupid."
But part of her didn't agree. Part of her remembered the feel of him, the heat that made her forget her name, the way she had been the one to pull him in.
That part scared her the most.
The elevator reached the lobby.
She lifted her chin, put on her sunglasses, and walked out.
The lobby was quiet but not empty. Two bellmen spoke in low voices near the doors. A woman in a red suit checked a tablet behind the front desk. A floral arrangement taller than a child stood in the center like a proud secret.
Salma kept her head down and moved fast.
Almost there. Just get outside. Blend with the street. She thought.
"Excuse me!" a young voice called. "Miss—um—aren't you—?"
She froze. A hotel staff boy, maybe nineteen, stood near the revolving door with a stack of folded towels in his arms. His eyes were wide and a little starstruck. He looked at her face, then at her dress, then back at her face again.
"You're Salma Rodriguez," he breathed. "The model. My sister follows you. She—she loves you."
Salma tried to smile. It felt weak.
"You're mistaken." she shook her head.
He grinned, like this was a game.
"No way. It's you. I've seen your ads at the airport." He leaned closer, lowering his voice like they shared a secret.
"I didn't know you stayed here. Or, like, stayed the night."
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment.
"Please," she said quietly. "This is private."
He nodded, but his eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Sure. Yeah. Of course. Private." He paused, as if he was waiting for something more—an autograph, a selfie, a tip, a story.
Salma reached into her bag with shaky fingers. She pulled out a folded bill and pressed it into his hand. "For your sister."
He looked at the money, then back at her. "You don't need to—"
"Please," she repeated. "Don't say anything. Not to anyone."
His smile faded a little. He tucked the bill away. "I won't," he said. "I mean… I'll try. But people notice things."
Her heart dropped. "What things?"
He lifted the towels, glancing over his shoulder. "There were cameras in the hall. And, um, Mrs. Kern from housekeeping said she saw a guy go into 1804 last night and then later, a girl in a white dress." He winced. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
Salma swallowed hard. She shoved another cash into his hands.
"Clear all CCTV cameras footage of last night, Thank you," she said, and walked past him before her legs could give out.
Outside, the city hit her like a wave—honking horns, morning voices, the sharp smell of street coffee and hot metal. She gulped air that didn't help.
Cameras in the hall. A girl in a white dress. People notice things.
She raised a hand for a cab.
One slid to the curb like she had snapped her fingers. She got in, shut the door, and told the driver the only place that felt safe.
"Westwood. The tall building near the park," she said. "Please. Fast."
He nodded and pulled into traffic.
Salma leaned back and closed her eyes. The cab's engine hummed.
She heard the deep voice again, the one from last night.
1q at mo
You have no idea what you've just done.
Maybe she still didn't.
~~~
Salma walked into Sophia's building making her way to the elevator which smelled like vanilla and new money. Salma kept her sunglasses on until she reached the eleventh floor.
Sophia opened the door before Salma could knock twice. She wore a silk robe the color of champagne and a messy bun that somehow looked expensive. Her eyes swept over Salma—dress, hair, heels, the tremble she was trying to hide.
"Oh my God," Sophia said softly. "You look wrecked."
"I feel worse," Salma replied, stepping inside.
Sophia closed the door and pulled her into a hug. It smelled like perfume and coffee and a little like safety.
"Bathroom. Shower. Now," Sophia said, steering her down the hall. "I'll get you water. And toast. And maybe a new head."
Salma tried to laugh and failed. "Don't be nice. I don't deserve it."
Sophia tapped her cheek lightly. "You're human. You made a mess. We'll clean it."
"Thanks, Salma smiled dropping her purse.
She walked into the room and stripped off her clothes before making her way into the bathroom.
The hot water stung her skin and then soothed it. She stood under the stream until the bathroom filled with steam and the mirror fogged over. She washed off the makeup, the night, the shame. She didn't touch the bruise blooming faint on her collarbone. She didn't look too long at the fingermarks that weren't hers.
Had she been the one to pull him in? Yes. Had he wanted her back? Yes.
The truth sat heavy and simple.
She wrapped herself in a towel and stared at the fogged mirror. She could almost draw a new face there. She could pretend to be someone else.
"Breakfast is on the counter," Sophia called from the kitchen.
Salma slipped into the soft T-shirt and shorts Sophia had left on the door. The cotton felt like mercy. She padded out barefoot and sat on a stool. There was toast with butter, a banana sliced just so, and a large glass of water. Sophia had always been good at the practical party's of love.
)}
Salma ate slowly. Every swallow scratched her throat.
Sophia leaned her elbows on the counter, studying her without pushing. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"
"Not really," Salma said.
She glanced at Sophia and caught her waiting for an answer.
"I left the wedding," Salma said finally, voice thin. "I ran. I went to a club. I drank too much. I followed a wrong door. I… I slept with someone."
Sophia's brows rose. She didn't look shocked. She looked like she'd expected that answer all along. "Do you know his name?"
"No."
"His face?"
Salma shook her head. "His hair covered it. I didn't try to see."
Sophia tilted her head. "Did he hurt you?"
"No." The answer came fast, from the bones. "No. It wasn't like that."
"Then why do you look like you want to crawl out of your skin?"
Salma stared at her hands. "Because I wanted it. Because for one night, I wanted something for me. And now I don't know who I am."
Sophia reached across the counter and squeezed her fingers.
"You're a woman who made a choice. That's all. You don't have to turn that into a story with teeth."
Salma blinked. "There might already be teeth."
"Meaning?"
"There were hotel cameras. And a staff boy recognized me. He said people talk."
Sophia's mouth went flat. "They always do."
"What if my father hears?" Salma whispered. "What if he finds me? What if he drags me back to Lukas and—"
"Hey." Sophia's voice softened. "You're safe here. We will handle it."
"How?" Salma asked. It sounded like a child's question.
"We start by turning off your phone," Sophia said, practical and calm. "And by resting. You look like you fought a war last night."
Salma pulled her phone from her bag, stared at the black screen, and put it face down on the counter. She did not turn it on. She didn't want to see messages. She didn't want to see her father's name.
Sophia made tea. She put honey in it without asking. She turned on quiet music. She opened the window to let in some breeze and the far-away noise of the city. It sounded like normal life. Salma clung to that sound.
"Stay as long as you need," Sophia said. "I'll cover for you."
"Thank you."
"No thanks," Sophia said with a little smile. "What are friends for?"
Salma tried again to laugh and managed it this time. It came out small but real.
She drank her tea. She closed her eyes. For a few minutes, she drifted.
Behind her eyelids, a room came back. A hand came back. His mouth came back. Her own voice came back, low and shameless. She pressed her knuckles to her lips, as if to push the memory away. It stayed anyway.
She didn't know his name. She didn't know his face. But she could still feel him.
It scared her. It steadied her. Both.
"Sleep," Sophia said, taking the empty mug. "We'll figure the rest out later."
Salma nodded and went to the guest room. She curled up on the soft bed. The sheets smelled like laundry and the hint of Sophia's perfume. She breathed slower. She didn't cry. She didn't have tears left.
She slept.
BEVERLY HILLS
Across the city, Aiden opened his eyes to a dull roar in his head.
He lay there, still as stone, letting his senses catch up. The bed was warm. The room was dim. The clock on the nightstand said 9:12 AM. The taste in his mouth was whiskey and something sweet that didn't belong.
He sat up and dragged a hand through his hair. It fell into his eyes. He pushed it back. The room steadied.
He then remembered Sylvia. How she had smiled too sweetly and handed him a drink that smelled almost right. He remembered the first wave of heat, the heaviness in his limbs, the way his thoughts slipped like water through his fists.
He was drugged by his so called childhood friend who's obsessed with having him touch her. His intensions was to turn her down even though he intentionally drank the spiked drink.
Then he remembered a second face—or not a face, a presence. A body moving into the room like a mistake that wanted to happen. Lips that tasted like trouble. Fingers that grabbed his wrist and pulled him down, refused to let go, turned a poisoned night into something he could feel in his bones.
He scanned the bed.
Empty now.
The imprint of a smaller body still dented the sheet. A faint smear of lipstick stained the pillowcase and she sheets were also stained with blood. A dark hair—hers, not his—curled near the edge of the mattress.
He didn't smile. He didn't swear. His jaw just tightened.
Someone had kissed him awake. Someone had left before sunrise.
He stood and walked to the window. The city looked back, bright and busy and not at all interested in his problems. He checked himself for the details he trusted more than memory: a scratch on his shoulder, a bruise on his hip, the ache he only felt after he forgot to stay in control.
It was real. All of it. And she was a virgin on top of it all.
He should be angry. He was angry. But under the anger was a pull he hated. Whoever she was, she had gotten under his skin without leaving a name behind.
He picked up his phone from the nightstand and called a number. The line clicked after one ring.
"Sir?" a voice said. Calm. Professional.
"Rafe," Aiden said. "I need footage. Every camera from the hotel hallways. Floor eighteen."
"Yes, sir."
"And, Rafe," he added, rubbing at the back of his neck, "no leaks. Not a word. If anyone asks, it's a routine security sweep."
"Understood."
Aiden ended the call and stared at the black screen for a long second. He placed the phone face down, as if it could bite.
He looked around the room again, searching for anything she had left. Nothing obvious. No earring under the chair. No note. No scent that wasn't already in the air. Only memory, and even that was shredded at the edges.
He exhaled once, slow and deep.
"Who are you?" he asked a slow but deadly smirk spreading across his lips.
🖤𝑻𝒐 𝑩𝒆 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅... 🖤