Chapter 8
8
Wil
I wake slowly, consciousness returning in gentle waves. Sunlight streams through the windows, revealing the unfamiliar room. For a moment, disorientation grips me. The bed is too large, the sheets are too soft, and the ceiling is too high to be my Brooklyn apartment.
Then memory rushes back of Eclipse, dancing, and Maxim, followed by the private suite, his hands on my body, and the unexpected passion between strangers. Heat rises to my cheeks as fragments of last night replay in vivid detail. I reach across the massive bed, expecting to find warm skin and solid muscle, but my fingers find only cool sheets.
I sit up, clutching the bedding to my chest. “Maxim?”
No response. The suite is dead silent. I scan the room for signs of his presence, but I find nothing. The only evidence that I didn’t dream the entire encounter is a single red rose resting on the pillow beside me, its petals perfectly cradled by the white silk.
Complex emotions swirl through me, including disappointment, embarrassment, and a strange relief that spares me the awkward morning-after conversation with a virtual stranger. I lift the rose, breathing in its subtle fragrance while running my finger along the stem where all thorns have been carefully removed. I normally dislike cut flowers, because they’re already dead, but I’m compelled to stroke this one gently for a second.
I slide from bed, wrapping the sheet around me like a makeshift toga as I explore the suite. The living area remains immaculate aside from two empty champagne flutes on the coffee table. In the bathroom, I find my borrowed dress hanging neatly on a hook, my underwear folded beside it. The consideration in this small gesture contrasts sharply with his absence.
A knock at the door startles me. Clutching the sheet tighter, I approach cautiously. “Who is it?”
“Breakfast, Ms. Lamb.”
I crack the door, revealing a young man with a covered tray. He’s wearing the uniform of the club below but looks awake and alert. “I didn’t order anything.”
“Compliments of Mr. Vorobev, ma’am. He arranged breakfast for nine.”
Vorobev. The name is unfamiliar, but Maxim never shared his last name last night. I step back, allowing the server to bring the tray into the room. He efficiently arranges the spread on the dining table. There are fresh fruit, pastries, smoked salmon, coffee, and orange juice.
He turns to me when he’s finished and smiles. “A car has been arranged whenever you’re ready to depart. Simply call seven-one-two on the internal phone to reach the office downstairs.”
He withdraws discreetly, leaving me alone with the elaborate breakfast and mounting questions. I slowly realize Maxim left no phone number and no promise to call. The finality sits heavily in my stomach, dampening my appetite despite the tempting spread before me.
What did I expect? A declaration of feelings after one night? A proposition for marriage because he’s utterly obsessed with me?
I force myself to eat, though the food tasteless despite its obvious quality. The practical nurse in me knows my body needs fuel, especially after last night’s... exertions. As I sip excellent coffee, I examine my feelings with clinical detachment.
Disappointment. Yes, but why? I specifically told him I wanted just one night, no strings attached. He’s simply respecting my stated boundaries.
Embarrassment. Unwarranted but persistent. I behaved unlike myself, surrendering to impulse rather than careful consideration.
Relief. Both legitimate and concerning. I don’t know this man, this “Mr. Vorobev,” whose wealth and influence seems known to everyone else.
There’s something else I’m reluctant to name. A hollow ache that suggests last night mattered more than I anticipated. The connection wasn’t purely physical. Something in our conversations, in the way he looked at me, and in how carefully he touched me, suggested recognition beyond mere attraction.
I shake my head, dispelling fanciful thoughts. One night doesn’t constitute a relationship, and mysterious businessmen who disappear before dawn aren’t reliable partner material. Besides, I have responsibilities, a career, and a carefully constructed life that doesn’t accommodate complications like Maxim Vorobev.
After breakfast, I shower in the ridiculously opulent bathroom. Hot water washes away physical evidence of the night but does nothing for the memories imprinted on my skin. I can still feel his hands, his mouth, and the weight of him above me.
I dry off with a plush towel, catching sight of myself in the full-length mirror. A purple mark decorates my inner thigh, and there’s another at the curve where neck meets shoulder. I have physical souvenirs I’ll need to hide beneath scrubs and high-collared shirts. I look different somehow. Not dramatically transformed, but slightly altered, as though last night rearranged something fundamental within me.
The borrowed dress feels even more inappropriate in daylight, but I have no alternatives. I slip it on, gathering my few belongings—clutch purse, phone, and dignity—preparing to leave this luxurious fantasy and return to reality.
Before departing, I take the rose, carefully wrapping its stem in a damp napkin to preserve it for the journey home. It’s a keepsake from a night I’ll never repeat but don’t wish to forget.
The concierge arranges a car with a single phone call. Within minutes, I’m whisked through a private exit, avoiding the main entrance where last night’s revelers are replaced by cleaning staff preparing for another evening of excess.
The car, a sleek black sedan with tinted windows, feels like a final extension of Maxim’s world, though the logo is from a commercial transportation company. The driver asks nothing beyond my address, maintaining professional silence as we traverse Manhattan toward Brooklyn. I watch the cityscape blur past, ordinary people living ordinary lives, completely unaware of the parallel universe of privilege I briefly inhabited.
My apartment building appears startlingly shabby after the opulence of the hotel suite. I thank the driver, declining his offer to escort me inside. The journey back to normal life is mine alone to make.
Inside, the apartment is mercifully empty. Gisele must still be out, possibly continuing her birthday celebrations or more likely at Jake’s place. I’m grateful for her absence, needing time to process before facing her inevitable questions.
I change immediately, hanging the borrowed dress in my closet where it will likely remain unworn again. Comfortable leggings and an oversized t-shirt feel like armor against the lingering sensation of silk and expensive cotton against my skin.
In the kitchen, I fill a small crystal vase—my mother’s, and one of the few valuable items I own—with water, carefully placing the rose inside. The deep red petals seem to glow against the ordinary backdrop of my apartment, a splash of extraordinary amid the mundane.
The familiar routine of caring for my plants is appealing now. I move through my collection, checking the soil moisture, removing dead leaves, and rotating the pots for optimal light exposure. The peace lily needs water, the succulents are thriving, and the herbs require trimming. The monotony of it washes away the dreamlike quality of the past twenty-four hours.
It's so much more normal than the wild world I’ve gotten mixed up in.
When I reach my prized rose bush, I pause, suddenly struck by the parallel between the cut flower Maxim left and this living plant I’ve nurtured since my mother’s death. One beautiful but temporary, the other requiring constant attention but capable of blooming repeatedly.
My phone chimes with a text from Gisele.
OMG, GIRL, WHERE ARE YOU?? Did you go home with someone?? DETAILS NEEDED!!
Reality crashes back fully. I’ll need to tell Gisele something. She won’t accept vague deflections or changed subjects, but how to explain a night that already feels like a dream? How do I describe Maxim? Intense, controlled, and surprisingly vulnerable in unguarded moments?
I shouldn’t say too much.
Home now. Long story. Talk later.
Her response is immediate.
YOU DID!! You totally hooked up! I need EVERY detail. Home in 20!
I set aside my phone, unready for Gisele’s enthusiastic interrogation. Twenty minutes isn’t enough time to construct the carefully edited version of events I’ll share. Excitement and adventure without the confusing emotional undertones.
I’m startled by the doorbell ringing and approach, peering through the peephole first before unlocking all three locks when I see a deliverywoman holding a plant. “Yes?”
“I have a delivery for Miss Willemina Lamb.”
I frown. “That’s me, but who…” I trail off as she hands me a small rosebush with a few tightly closed red buds. “There’s no card.” I say it more like a statement than a question.
She looks at her electronic device. “The sender is anonymous.”
“Thanks.” I dig in my purse for a tip and close the door behind her, staring at the living rosebush. I don’t need a card to know it’s from Maxim. He clearly remembered my remarks about preferring living plants to dead flowers. It’s a more thoughtful goodbye, but that’s clearly what it is.
Hesitantly, I move toward the plants I’ve collected and set the small bush next to the fuller, more vibrant bush from my mother. The lone flower he left on the pillow seems even sadder now, and I impulsively dump the vase and throw it away. It feels like severing the connection, or at least, a weak attempt to do so.
To completely excise the night, I should throw away the living bush too, but I can’t bring myself to do that. It’s fragile but alive, waiting to burst into bloom. It reminds me of the passionate hours I spent with Maxim last night, blooming into something new and unexpected. That part of me has wilted again, carefully locked away, but I still can’t bring myself to throw out the rosebush. That feels too final somehow, like slamming a door on the moment when I’m tempted to leave it open just a crack.
Instead of murdering the rosebush, I retreat to the bathroom, examining the marks on my skin. The one on my neck can be covered with makeup or a scarf. The others will remain private reminders, hidden beneath clothing and professionalism.
In the mirror, I search for visible evidence of transformation, some outward sign of the internal shift I feel, but my reflection appears unchanged. Same green eyes, same dark hair, and same mouth that gasped Maxim’s name just hours ago. Whatever altered within me remains invisible, a secret between my body and memory.
Gisele’s key turns in the lock fifteen minutes later. Earlier than promised, typical of her impatience. She bursts into the apartment like a redheaded hurricane, still wearing last night’s silver dress, makeup slightly smudged but eyes bright with excitement and curiosity.
“You disappeared,” she exclaims, dropping her purse and kicking off heels simultaneously. “One minute you were going to the bathroom, next thing I know you’re gone! I texted you like a million times!”
I check my phone, finding multiple missed messages I hadn’t noticed in my distraction. “Sorry. I should have let you know I was leaving.”
“Forget apologies.” She waves dismissively, dropping onto the couch beside me. “Tell me EVERYTHING. Who was he? Where did you go? Was it amazing? It had to be amazing for you to abandon your best friend on her birthday.”
“You seemed pretty occupied with Jake,” I deflect, buying time. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Nice try. Spill it.” She pokes my arm insistently. “You never do this. Ever. So whoever he was must have been spectacular.”
I sigh, accepting the inevitable. “His name was Maxim. We danced, talked, and yes, went upstairs to his apartment above the club.”
“Maxim?” She practically squeals. “That’s hot. Foreign? Rich? Details, Wil.”
“Russian, I think, and yes, definitely wealthy.” I volunteer the basic facts, hoping they’ll satisfy her. “He had access to a private suite above the club because he’d just bought the club.”
Gisele’s eyes widen comically. “The penthouse suites? Those are impossible to get! Even Jake was impressed by them, and he knows everybody.” She leans forward eagerly. “So? How was it?”
“It was...” I search for words that won’t reveal too much. “Unexpected. Good. Different.”
“Different how?” She studies my face with sudden seriousness. “Wait, he wasn’t weird or pushy, was he? Because I’ll hunt him down if?—”
“No, nothing like that,” I assure her quickly. “He was...considerate. Intense, but in a good way.” The description feels woefully inadequate for what transpired between us, but it satisfies Gisele’s concern, her expression relaxing into renewed curiosity.
“So when are you seeing him again? Did you get his number? Please tell me you got his number.”
I shake my head slowly. “It was just one night. He was gone when I woke up.” I gesture toward the rosebush. “He arranged breakfast and a car home, and that was delivered a little while about, but there was no contact information.”
“That motherfucker.” Gisele’s protectiveness flares instantly. “Classic hit-and-run.”
“No, it wasn’t like that.” I defend him instinctively, surprising myself. “I told him I only wanted one night, no expectations. He respected that.”
She eyes me skeptically. “And you’re okay with that? Really?”
Am I? The question pierces through my careful compartmentalization. I told him one night was all I wanted, yet waking alone left me hollow in ways I hadn’t anticipated.
“It’s for the best,” I say finally. “We live in completely different worlds. It was a fantasy, not reality.”
Gisele sighs dramatically. “Sometimes, fantasy is worth pursuing, you know. Not everything needs to be practical and sensible like your precious nursing rotations.”
The words sting more than they should. “My work matters, Gisele.”
“So does living, Wil.” Her tone softens. “I’m not saying abandon your career for some rich guy. I’m saying you deserve both. Purpose and passion. When’s the last time you let yourself really want something just for you?”
The question hangs between us, uncomfortably accurate. When did I last pursue something solely for personal fulfillment rather than practical necessity? Before my mother died, perhaps, when the future seemed full of possibilities rather than responsibilities.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say finally. “He’s gone, didn’t leave his number, and clearly wanted the same thing I said I wanted. One night, no complications.”
Gisele studies me with uncharacteristic insight. “But what if you were wrong about what you want?”
I turn away, unwilling to explore that possibility. “I have a shift tonight, so I should rest.” Truthfully, I still feel well-rested after sleeping in his arms, but I will need a nap before tackling a twelve-hour shift later.
Recognizing my retreat, Gisele rises with a resigned sigh. “Fine, avoid the question, but this conversation isn’t over. Just postponed.” She squeezes my shoulder gently. “For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you for doing something spontaneous, even if you’re determined to file it away as a one-time experience.”
After she disappears into her room, I sit alone with thoughts I’ve been avoiding. What if she’s right? What if one night with Maxim revealed something I’ve been denying. That my carefully constructed life, for all its purpose and structure, lacks something essential?
I walk to the plants and touch one of the buds gently, its velvet texture like a tactile memory of a man I’ll never see again. I’ll return to the NICU, to tiny patients who need my skills and focus. I’ll resume my routines, my responsibilities, and my predictable existence. The night with Maxim will gradually fade into memory, an anomaly rather than a turning point. Right?
Yet as I prepare for bed, setting my alarm, I can’t shake the feeling that something fundamental has shifted within me. A door opened that can’t be fully closed again, revealing possibilities I’ve long denied myself. Sleep comes slowly, my body remembering the weight and warmth of another even as my mind insists on forgetting.