Pov: Elena
I didn't come to the Bellridge Hotel to find a man.
I came to forget one.
My heels click softly against the marble floors as I walk through the lobby, the chandelier's light bouncing off the polished surfaces and making everything feel just a little more expensive than I can afford. I don't belong here. Not really. Not with my six-month-old thrift-store dress and clearance rack perfume.
But tonight isn't about belonging.
It's about escape.
The elevator ride to the rooftop lounge is quiet, save for the hum of music above and the thoughts circling my head like vultures. He proposed to her. After everything we went through. After all the promises. I grip the railing, jaw tight.
I need air. Or a drink. Or both.
The rooftop is dimly lit, more intimate than I expected. Warm lights glow around the bar, and strangers linger at small tables with wine glasses and half-finished conversations. I slide onto a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the noise. Safe in the shadows.
"One whiskey, neat," I say, ignoring the curious look from the bartender.
It arrives quickly. I wrap my fingers around the glass, taking in the scent before sipping. The alcohol bites, but not hard enough to distract me from the ache in my chest.
"Bad day?" a voice says beside me.
I turn, a little startled.
He's seated just a stool away. Clean-cut but not overly groomed. Black shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark eyes that observe more than they should, and a quiet stillness in the way he holds his glass. Like he's in control of every breath, every movement.
I shrug, offering a half-smile. "Bad week."
He nods once, like he understands without needing to ask. "Cheers to that."
We clink glasses.
I don't ask his name. He doesn't offer it. It feels better this way—like we're not real people with histories, just two ghosts drifting in the night.
We talk, casually at first. Small things. Music. How overpriced the drinks are. His voice is deep, calm, almost melodic in the way it wraps around every word. He listens—really listens—like he doesn't just hear what I'm saying but what I'm not.
I find myself saying things I never say to strangers. About work. About the promotion I didn't get. About how it feels to be invisible in a room full of people. He doesn't offer solutions. Just presence. And oddly, that's enough.
When I laugh, it surprises both of us. The corners of his mouth twitch.
"You don't laugh like someone having a bad week," he says.
I arch a brow. "You don't sit alone like someone who's here for business."
His smile deepens. Not quite flirty. Just amused.
The air shifts between us. I notice the way his fingers brush the rim of his glass. The small scar above his left brow. The intensity in his eyes when he looks at me and doesn't look away.
It's not lust.
Not yet.
Just awareness. Quiet, electric awareness.
I check the time. It's nearly midnight.
"I should go," I say, though my body doesn't move.
He nods but doesn't say goodbye. Doesn't ask for my number. Just looks at me, waiting.
The silence stretches. A choice waiting to be made.
I stand slowly, watching him. "If I stayed… would it mean anything?"
His expression doesn't change. But his voice softens when he answers.
"It doesn't have to."
That's when I know.
---
We don't rush.
Even as we walk through the hallway toward the elevator, we don't touch. We don't speak. There's a quiet reverence to it—like we're both pretending this is sacred, not reckless.
Room 607 is dim and cold. He opens the door for me, and I step in first.
Still, no kisses. No fast hands.
He places his keycard on the table, takes off his jacket, and asks gently, "Do you want a drink?"
I nod.
He pours us something golden and smooth. We sit at the edge of the bed, two strangers with too many shadows behind their smiles.
Then finally, his hand reaches mine—not possessive, just curious. Like he's asking if this is still okay.