Chapter 3
Present
The music is too loud.
Not in the way clubs use volume to create energy, but in the way trauma makes silence unbearable. The bass isn’t just sound here. It’s insulation. It wraps around me until I can’t hear my own thoughts. Until I forget who I was before the music started.
The Velvet Room lives up to its name. Dark.
Plush. Saturated in a kind of decadence that tries to convince you pain is glamorous.
Red velvet booths, gold sconces that flicker like they know secrets.
It’s beautiful if you’ve never worked here.
If you’ve only passed through on your way to forget something.
But I don’t get to forget. I live in it.
I wipe down the bar for the third time in fifteen minutes. The counter gleams, already spotless, but my hands won’t stop moving. Motion is safety. Stillness is danger. In stillness, I remember.
“Two martinis and an Old Fashioned,” a voice calls out from the end of the bar. Deep, confident, full of money. I don’t look up right away. I know the type. A suit. Gold cufflinks. A man who’s used to getting everything he asks for and tipping just enough to make you feel dirty about taking it.
I grab the shaker and start building. Vodka, vermouth, bitters, a sugar cube. My hands move fast, automatic, but my brain is elsewhere. The air tonight smells like perfume and desperation. A little too much Tom Ford. A little too much regret.
The after-work crowd is flooding in, and with it comes the usual parade of masks.
Women dressed like goddesses, heels like weapons, lips painted red as warning signs.
Men with loosened ties and untold secrets in their smiles.
Laughter that sounds like lies. Hugs that turn into hands wandering where they shouldn’t after the third round.
This is the place where everyone’s trying to forget something. A spouse. A job. A name.
And I’m the bartender.
The shaker clinks softly as I pour. The martinis go out first. A slice of lemon curls delicately over the rim. The Old Fashioned goes last, amber liquid sliding smooth into a heavy glass, the kind that makes you feel like the world could still be elegant.
I slide them across the bar and force a smile. The man doesn’t notice. He’s already halfway into his phone, scrolling through emails or maybe dating apps. They all start to look the same after a while.
At the far end of the room, a woman laughs too loudly at something a man in a navy suit says. Her lipstick is already on her teeth, and her eyes are glassy. I can tell she’s going to cry in the bathroom in under twenty minutes.
I know the signs. Rejection. Low self-esteem.
“Can I get two more shots of tequila?” someone asks behind me.
“Coming up.” The voice is familiar. Jazz. One of the servers. She’s barely twenty-two, all legs and eyeliner, too bright for this place. I hand her the tray and our fingers brush.
“You good?” she asks quietly.
I nod too fast. “Always.”
She gives me a look. The kind that says she doesn’t believe me, but she knows better than to push. No one really asks questions here unless they want their own secrets exposed in return.
The music changes. Something with a slower beat, darker, sexier. The lights dim half a notch and the whole place shifts. It always does around this time, as if the building itself has moods.
I pour myself a glass of water and sip slowly. My stomach is tight, restless. Every few minutes, I glance at the clock. Every minute that passes feels like a fight I’m not sure I’m winning.
My phone buzzes against the register. I snatch it up fast, too fast. But it’s just a reminder for rent. Not a call. Not a text. Nothing from anyone that matters.
I set the phone down and stare at the screen.
I see my reflection faintly in the black.
Pale skin. Hollow cheeks. Mascara already smudged even though it’s only 8 p.m. my hair in bad need of a refresh.
I can’t remember the last time I could afford a day at the salon.
I haven’t slept properly in three nights.
I haven’t eaten anything solid since yesterday’s toast. And my body feels like it’s moving on momentum alone.
A guy at the center of the bar catches my eye. He’s watching me. Tall. Olive skin. Sharp jaw. Designer suit, open collar. He looks like someone who should be in a boardroom, not a bar. But here he is, leaning forward with a look that says he’s already imagined undressing me.
I flash him the kind of smile I’ve learned to perfect. Not too much teeth. Just enough suggestion. Just enough pain.
He raises his glass in salute and mouths, “One more?”
I nod, already reaching for the bourbon.
It’s always like this. Eye contact. A glance. A drink. A room. A morning I regret from actions I hardly remember.
And still I do it. Over and over again. Because the silence in the moment my brain shuts down is the only time I can hear myself breathe.
The rest of the night slides by like it’s underwater. Music. Orders. Tips. Laughter. The shaker in my hands becomes part of my body. I’m mechanical. Smiling when I’m supposed to. Flirting when it earns an extra five on the bill. Pretending I care when someone slurs out their latest heartbreak.
Jazz brushes past me again. “You going out after?”
“Maybe.”
She arches a brow. “You said that last time. Then you vanished.”
“Guess I’m mysterious now.”
She gives a low chuckle and walks off.
The truth is, I did vanish. I went home with a man whose name I never asked. I ended up in a hallway I didn’t recognize, tasting gin and regret on his skin. I left before dawn, barefoot, bleeding from the inside out.
I don’t even remember what he looked like. Just the way he gripped my waist too hard. The way I let him.
At midnight, the crowd begins to thin. The regulars settle in deeper. The rookies fade out.
I wipe down the bar again.
The man in the suit is still there.
When I bring his check, he places a hotel room key beside his card.
Room 1103. The Waverly.
Of course. A man like him chooses The Waverly.
He doesn’t speak. Just looks at me like I’m a drink he’s planning to savor. I pick up the key and tuck it into my back pocket. I tell myself I won’t go. That I’ll throw it away with the empty limes and dirty napkins. That I’ll take the subway home and actually sleep in my own bed tonight.
But I already know I’m lying.
Because sleep brings dreams.
And dreams bring memories.
And memories bring Sebastian.
By 2 a.m., the bar is closed. The floors are sticky with spilled cocktails. My body aches from standing twelve hours straight. My back is stiff. My fingers smell like citrus and sanitizer. I’ve made almost two hundred in tips.
And I still feel empty.
I walk outside into the cool night air. The city is quiet in that strange way it gets between two and four. Not dead. Just pausing. Like it’s catching its breath before sunrise. The streets glisten faintly from a light drizzle. The streetlights make puddles look like mirrors.
I should go home.
I should.
But instead, I start walking toward The Waverly.
My boots echo softly on the wet sidewalk. I pass a couple making out in an alley, pressed hard against the brick like the world is ending. A man asleep on a bench with a shopping cart beside him. A girl in a tight gold dress, crying into her phone, her mascara running.
I see pieces of myself in all of them.
When I reach the hotel, the doorman doesn’t even blink. He’s seen me before. Maybe not me, but someone like me.
The elevator smells like perfume and money.
When I step off on the eleventh floor, I pause.
Room 1103.
The key feels heavy in my hand. I know I should use it but instead, I knock lightly.
Two seconds pass before the door opens, before I can even second-guess it.
He’s shirtless now. Lean muscle. A scar on his side. He smiles like he’s already undressed me in his head. He steps aside, letting me in without a word.
I walk past him.
The room smells like whiskey and cologne. Music plays softly from a speaker. Something jazzy. The lights are low. It’s a performance, and we both know our roles.
He hands me a drink.
I take it.
The rest is a blur. Hands. Heat. My dress slipping to the floor. His mouth on my skin. My body responding out of habit, not desire. I close my eyes and pretend I’m somewhere else. Someone else. Someone who doesn’t need to feel this in order to feel anything.
After, he falls asleep quickly. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, the sheets tangled around my legs. My chest is tight. My throat feels raw. I reach for my phone.
No messages.
I slip out quietly, careful not to wake him. I don’t bother with the elevator. I take the stairs.
Outside, the sky is beginning to lighten. I start walking home. Each step feels heavier than the last.
By the time I reach my apartment, my legs are shaking. I drop my purse on the floor and strip in the hallway, leaving a trail of clothes behind me.
The shower scalds my skin. I stand there until the water runs cold. When I finally collapse into bed, I stare at the ceiling until sleep takes me.
It’s not peace.