Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Scarlett
The light is wrong.
That's the first thing I notice as consciousness creeps in. Soft, gray dawn filtering through unfamiliar windows. Not my bedroom. Not my curtains.
My head throbs with each heartbeat, a relentless pounding behind my eyes. My mouth tastes like champagne and regret. The hangover hits me like a freight train—nausea rolling in my stomach, temples screaming.
But my body...my body is buzzing.
I'm warm. Sore. Aching in places I haven't ached in months—maybe ever. My thighs throb. My pussy pulses with a delicious soreness. My skin feels alive, hypersensitive, like every nerve ending is still firing.
I shift slightly and freeze. There's an arm around my waist. Heavy. Possessive. Pinning me against a solid wall of muscle and warmth.
My eyes fly open.
Dax.
I'm in Dax's bed. In Dax's suite. Naked.
His arm draped over me like I belong here.
The previous night crashes back in fragments.
The terrace. The champagne. His mouth on mine.
The wedding dress falling to the floor. His hands.
His mouth. His cock. The way he made me come apart. The way I cried. The way he held me.
Oh fuck.
What did I do?
My heart hammers against my ribs. I stare at the ceiling, trying to control my breathing, trying not to panic. Dax's chest rises and falls against my back in the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. His face is turned away from me, buried partially in his pillow.
I need to leave. Now.
Carefully—so carefully—I start to extract myself from his arms. His grip is firm, his forearm resting across my stomach. I lift it gently, inch by agonizing inch, praying he doesn't wake up. He takes a deep breath and I freeze, every muscle locked. My heart stops.
Don't wake up. Please don't wake up.
He shifts slightly, his arm moving, and I hold my breath.
Then he settles again, his breathing evening out.
I wait another ten seconds before moving again.
Slowly, I slide toward the edge of the bed, my body screaming in protest. Everything hurts.
My head. My muscles. But especially the delicious ache between my legs—a reminder of exactly how thoroughly he fucked me last night.
I'm halfway out from under his arm when the bed shifts beneath me. I freeze again, panic spiking. Dax mumbles something incoherent and rolls slightly, taking his arm with him.
Freedom.
I continue my escape, sliding across the sheets like I'm defusing a bomb. The mattress is enormous, and it takes forever to reach the edge. When I finally do, I pause, calculating my exit strategy.
I swing one leg over the side, then the other, and start to lower myself to the floor.
The movement is too quick. I lose my balance and tumble off the bed, landing on the plush carpet with a soft thud.
I lie there on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening.
Nothing. No movement from the bed.
Thank God.
I roll onto my hands and knees and crawl toward the bedroom door. My head pounds with each movement. Nausea swirls in my stomach. But I keep going, desperate to get out before he wakes up and I have to face what we did.
The living room is bathed in the soft gray light of early dawn. I can barely see, but I don't dare turn on a light. I feel around in the dim space, searching for my clothes.
There—the wedding dress. A crumpled heap of ivory silk and lace on the floor near the wall where he unzipped it. The sight of it makes my stomach turn. I grab it, the fabric heavy and wrinkled in my hands.
My panties are nearby. I find my bra tangled in the dress. My shoes kicked off somewhere near the terrace doors.
I pull on my underwear, fumbling in the darkness, my hands shaking. The wedding dress goes over my head. I can't deal with the zipper, so I hold it closed at my back, clutching the fabric with one hand.
My room key. Where's my room key?
I scan the room frantically, squinting in the dim light. There—on the credenza by the door, next to the empty champagne bottle.
I tiptoe over, my bare feet silent on the carpet, and grab the key card.
As I reach for the door handle, I catch my reflection in the mirror hanging above the credenza.
I look like I've been through hell.
My hair is a wild mess, tangled and falling around my shoulders in chaotic waves.
My makeup is mostly gone except for the smudged remnants of mascara beneath my eyes, giving me a haunted, raccoon-like appearance.
My lips are swollen. There's a faint mark on my neck—a bruise forming where Dax's mouth was.
But my cheeks are flushed. My skin glows. My eyes, despite the dark circles and smudged makeup, have a brightness to them that wasn't there yesterday.
Because my body feels incredible.
Sore, yes. Aching, absolutely. But alive. Buzzing. Satisfied in a way I've never experienced before.
I tear my gaze away from the mirror and open the door as quietly as possible. The hallway is empty, silent except for the distant hum of the hotel's HVAC system.
I slip out, letting the door close behind me with the softest click.
The walk down the hallway to my suite feels endless. Every step makes my thighs ache. Every movement reminds me of what happened in that bedroom. Of Dax's hands on my body. His mouth. The way he made me forget everything except the pleasure he was giving me.
I reach my door and fumble with the key card, my hands still shaking. It takes three tries before the lock clicks open.
I stumble inside and lean against the closed door, finally allowing myself to breathe.
My suite looks exactly as I left it yesterday morning. Makeup scattered across the vanity. The garment bag that held my wedding dress now empty. Coffee cups and pastry wrappers from breakfast with Jane and Sarah.
A lifetime ago.
I push off the door and head straight for the bathroom. I can't look at myself anymore. Can't think about what I've done.
The shower is scalding hot, and I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink. I scrub every inch of my body, washing away the scent of Dax's cologne, the remnants of champagne, the evidence of last night.
But I can't wash away the soreness. The aching. The way my body still hums with satisfaction.
I dry off quickly and throw on jeans and a sweater—the first things I find in my suitcase. My hair is still wet, but I don't care. I twist it into a bun and start shoving everything into my bags.
Makeup. Toiletries. The clothes I brought for the honeymoon that will never happen.
The wedding dress. I stare at it, crumpled on the floor where I dropped it. The beautiful ivory lace and silk. The dress I was supposed to wear while Miles and I said our vows.
The dress I wore and then took off, while his brother fucked me senseless.
I grab it roughly, stuff it into the garment bag without bothering to fold it properly. The stains—champagne, tears, evidence of the disaster that was yesterday—are still visible. I zip the bag closed and don't look at it again.
By the time I'm finished packing, the clock on the nightstand reads 6:47 AM.
I grab my suitcase and garment bag and take one last look around the suite.
This was supposed to be my bridal suite.
The place where I'd get ready to marry Miles.
The place where we'd spend our wedding night.
Instead, it's just another hotel room I'm fleeing from.
I leave without looking back.The elevator ride down feels surreal. I'm alone in the mirrored car, my reflection staring back at me from every angle. I look exhausted. Wrecked. Like I've been through a war.
The lobby is quiet at this hour. A few early risers getting coffee. Business travelers checking out. The front desk staff looking fresh and professional. I approach the desk, wheeling my suitcase behind me, the garment bag draped over my arm.
"Checking out?" the clerk asks with a practiced smile.
"Yes. Suite 1804."
She types into her computer.
"Ms. Bradford. I hope you enjoyed your stay."
I nearly laugh. Enjoyed. That's one word for it.
"It was fine. Thank you."
She processes my checkout, and I sign the receipt with a shaking hand. The clerk glances at the garment bag, and I see recognition flicker in her eyes. She knows. She knows this is the bride from yesterday's cancelled wedding.
Her smile turns sympathetic.
"Would you like assistance with your bags, ma'am? Or a car service?"
"A taxi. Just a taxi, please."
"Of course. I'll have the doorman hail one for you."
I nod and turn away, heading for the main entrance. The morning air hits me as the doors slide open—cool and crisp, carrying the scent of the city waking up.
The doorman, an older gentleman in a pristine uniform, tips his hat.
"Good morning, miss. Taxi?"
"Yes, please."
He steps to the curb and raises his hand. Within seconds, a yellow cab pulls up.
"Here you are, miss."
He opens the door for me, and I climb in quickly, dragging my suitcase and garment bag with me.
The door shuts. The cab pulls away from the Waldorf Astoria.
I don't look back at the hotel. I can't–because if I do, I might see Dax's window.
I might think about him waking up and finding me gone.
I might remember the way his arms felt around me.
I give the driver my address and sink back against the seat, closing my eyes. My body still aches. My head still pounds. My heart is a mess of confusion and shame and something else I don't want to name.
Yesterday, I was supposed to get married. Instead, I was abandoned at the altar by my fiancé and ended up in bed with his brother. I press my fingers against my temples, trying to stop the thoughts from spiraling.
The city passes by the window in a blur of buildings and early morning traffic. I focus on breathing. On getting home. On escaping this nightmare. The taxi turns a corner, and my apartment building comes into view. Almost there. Almost safe.
I pay the driver, grab my bags, and stumble into my building. Up the elevator. Down the hall. Through my door. I drop everything in the entryway and lock the door behind me. My apartment is quiet. Empty. Exactly as I left it. I walk to my bedroom, strip off my clothes, and crawl into bed.
The sheets smell like home. Like safety. Like everything that happened in the last twenty-four hours was just a horrible dream. But my body knows better. Every ache. Every throb. Every buzzing nerve ending. I pull the covers over my head and finally let myself break.