128
The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, and Alexander stepped out, pinching the bridge of his nose, his fingers already stained with the unmistakable smear of blood.
It happened sometimes, when the pressure built too much, when stress curled around his body like a vice, when thoughts refused to settle and his chest felt too tight to breathe. His doctor had warned him, told him the strain was getting worse. But Alexander had never been one to listen, not when it came to his health.
He walked down the softly lit corridor of the Monte Carlo hotel with slow, deliberate steps, blood still trickling. Not enough to alarm, but enough to make a statement if anyone dared to look too closely.
He reached his suite, the doors parted with an electronic beep when he swiped his key card. Silence greeted him. Lavish silence. The kind that was expensive and hollow.
He stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him, locking the evening out. The ocean glittered far below through the tall glass windows, distant and untouchable.
His hands trembled as he reached for a napkin, dabbing at his nose until the bleeding slowed. Then, he poured himself a drink.
It was muscle memory at this point; how to numb, how to distance, how to forget.
The ice clinked against the glass, the scotch smooth and sharp against his throat. It burned, but not nearly enough. Nothing burned the way her eyes had burned into him just hours ago.
Yalda.
He closed his eyes. The image came back instantly, hauntingly vivid. She had been standing across the ballroom like some vision plucked straight from a memory; ever so elegant in her gown, her expression unreadable, her hazel eyes brighter than he remembered.
She seemed alive, beathing, and whole.
And not his.....
He gritted his teeth, dragging a hand through his hair as he paced to the window. He hadn’t meant to look at her. He had forced himself to turn away the moment his brain caught up to his eyes. Pretend he hadn’t seen her. Pretend it hadn’t gutted him. Pretend it didn’t matter.
But it did. It mattered too damn much.
The pain that clenched around his chest now wasn’t new, it had made a home there ever since they ended, ever since he destroyed what was fragile and soft between them.
He had no right to feel anything. He had let her go.
Still, that aching silence she left behind had never stopped echoing.
He reached for his glass again, but this time, he downed the content in one gulp and didn’t refill it. He needed something stronger. Something more distracting.
As if summoned by his pain, a soft knock came at the door. He didn't ask who it was. He already knew.
He had called for her earlier, long before the ball. He hadn't expected to need her quite this much tonight, but now that she was here, well, it was too late to change his mind.
He opened the door, stepping aside to let the woman in.
She was tall and blonde, dressed in something tight and glittering, her makeup flawless, smile practiced. She smelled of perfume and desperation. Not the desperate kind that begged for love, just the kind that was trying to survive. She would do what was asked and leave before sunrise. That was the deal.
“Rough night?” she asked, eyeing the dried blood beneath his nose.
He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked back into the suite and sat on the edge of the bed. “Drink something. Or don’t. Just take off your shoes.”
The woman did as she was told. She was used to men like him; rich, quiet, broken in ways they didn’t like to name. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t need to know about the woman he couldn’t stop thinking about.
Yalda’s name remained a ghost on his tongue.
He didn’t kiss the blonde, he never did, he didn’t want to.
When she joined him on the bed, he didn’t hesitate. His hands moved on instinct, his eyes vacant, his heart elsewhere. The woman moaned prettily when he touched her, but he didn’t hear her. He didn’t hear anything except the pulse of memory roaring through him.
He tried to lose himself in the feeling, the friction, the sweat, the heat.
He gripped her harder than he meant to, angled himself rougher than necessary, his body moved, but his mind was gone. He desperately wanted to clear his thoughts, to make his mind blank. And when the blonde moaned, she dragged him back to the present.
He grabbed her throat, choking her, not cruelly, but hard enough to get her to not make a sound. But it did nothing for him, did nothing to the rawness within. His thrusts slowed, then stopped altogether.
The blonde blinked up at him in confusion, her breathless smile fading.
“You okay?” she asked.
Alexander exhaled shakily, his weight pressing into the mattress as he pulled away and sat up. “You should go.”
She hesitated, watching him with something that almost resembled pity. But she nodded, collecting her things without another word. He paid her in silence, leaving the bills folded on the nightstand.
When she left, the suite felt colder.
Alexander stared at the closed door for a long time before leaning forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
His chest was tight again, the pain was back, it was gnawing, and endless.
Yalda’s face still hovered behind his eyes. Her voice. Her laugh. Her tears. He’d once held her when she cried, kissed her quiet, promised he would take care of her.
Now she cried in someone else’s arms. Slept in someone else’s bed. Belonged, perhaps, to someone else entirely.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He stood, walking to the window, scotch in hand again, though the drink barely registered on his tongue.
It would be a very long and exhausting night, and unfortunately it was just starting.
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