Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Scarlett
Sunlight filters through the hotel curtains, gentle and unwelcome.
I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, my head pounding from last night's drinks.
Jane and Sarah are still asleep in the other bed, both of them sprawled out and snoring softly.
The room is quiet except for the muted sounds of Manhattan traffic below.
Last night plays in a loop. My body hums with the memory. Satisfied in a way I've never experienced before. Not with Miles. Not with anyone.
What was guilt before—shame about sleeping with my ex-fiancé's brother—is slowly being replaced with something else. Something I can't quite name. Something that feels dangerous.
I feel different. Changed. Like a line has been crossed that I can't uncross. I push the thoughts away and slide out of bed quietly, careful not to wake Jane and Sarah. My legs are still shaky. I can still feel Dax between them, inside me, claiming me against that bathroom counter.
I shake my head and pad to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. The mirror reflects back a woman I barely recognize. My hair is tangled. My makeup is smudged. There's a faint mark on my neck that I'll need to cover with concealer. I lean against the sink and stare at my reflection.
What the hell am I doing?
By the time I emerge from the bathroom, Jane and Sarah are awake and ordering room service. The smell of coffee fills the suite, and my stomach growls.
"There she is," Sarah says, looking rough.
"How's your head?"
"Pounding," I admit, which isn't entirely a lie.
Jane groans from the couch.
"I'm never drinking again."
"You say that every time," Sarah points out.
Room service arrives with breakfast—eggs, bacon, toast, fruit, and a pot of strong coffee. We settle around the small dining table, eating in relative silence as we nurse our hangovers.
"So," Jane says after a few minutes, her eyes sharp despite her obvious fatigue.
"Last night. You and Dax."
My heart jumps. "What about it?"
"You two stepped away for a while," Sarah adds.
"What did you talk about?"
I take a sip of coffee, buying time.
"Just about Miles. The wedding. He apologized for his brother."
Jane studies me. "That's it?"
"That's it." I force myself to meet her gaze.
"It was awkward, but we cleared the air. That's all."
Sarah seems satisfied with this explanation, already moving on to discussing today's plans. But Jane watches me for a moment longer before nodding and returning to her eggs.
I can't bring myself to tell them the truth. Can't admit that I let Dax fuck me in a public bathroom while they were dancing twenty feet away. Can't explain the way my body responded to him, the way I'm still feeling him now.
So I keep quiet and eat my breakfast.
"Okay," Sarah announces, pulling out her phone.
"Today we're doing more sightseeing. The Met, shopping in SoHo again, maybe a walk through the Village."
Jane perks up. "I want to go to that bookstore you mentioned."
"The Strand?" Sarah nods.
"We can do that."
We spend the next hour getting ready—showering, dressing, doing makeup. By eleven, we're out the door and heading into the city.
Manhattan is alive with energy. We spend the afternoon wandering through the Metropolitan Museum of Art, getting lost in galleries filled with paintings and sculptures. Sarah takes photos of everything. Jane buys postcards in the gift shop.
I try to be present. Try to enjoy this time with my friends. But my mind keeps drifting back to last night.
We're walking through Central Park when my phone buzzes in my purse. I pull it out and freeze.
Dax: How are you?
My heart stutters. I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Jane and Sarah are ahead of me, pointing at something near the lake.
They haven't noticed I've stopped. I slip my phone back into my purse without responding.
An hour later, while we're browsing a boutique in SoHo, my phone buzzes again.
Dax: Scarlett.
Just my name. Nothing else. But the weight of it feels heavy, demanding. I don't respond. I turn my phone on silent and focus on the racks of dresses Sarah is showing me.
The rest of our time in New York blurs together in a montage of sights and experiences.
We eat dinner at a trendy Italian restaurant in the West Village, the kind of place with exposed brick and candles on every table. The pasta is incredible, the wine even better. Sarah flirts with our waiter. Jane makes us laugh with stories about her disastrous dating life.
We spend an afternoon at the Strand bookstore, getting lost in the stacks. I buy three novels I probably won't read. Jane buys a first edition of something she's been searching for. Sarah buys a cookbook she swears she'll actually use.
One evening, we head downtown to a jazz club Sarah found online. The space is small and intimate, filled with the sound of a saxophone and the low murmur of conversation. We drink bourbon and listen to the music, and for a few hours, I forget about everything else.
Another day, we walk through the Village, stopping at cafes and vintage shops. We listen to a band playing acoustic covers outside a bar called the Bitter End. We eat cupcakes from a bakery Sarah insists has the best in the city.
I keep checking my phone. There are no more texts from Dax. I'm relieved and disappointed at the same time, which makes no sense.
"You've been distracted," Sarah says one night over drinks at a rooftop bar.
"What?" I blink, pulling myself back to the present.
"You keep zoning out." She studies me.
"Are you okay?"
"Just tired," I lie. "It's been a lot."
Jane reaches over and squeezes my hand.
"We know this trip was supposed to help you move on from Miles. Are you doing okay with all of that?"
"Yeah." I nod, forcing a smile.
"This has been exactly what I needed. Thank you both. Really."
They seem satisfied with my answer, and the conversation moves on.
Late that night, back at the hotel, Jane and Sarah fall asleep quickly.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind racing.
I think about Miles again. About the wedding that never happened.
About three years of my life that ended with me standing in a corridor in my wedding dress, humiliated in front of everyone I know.
And then I think about Dax.
The way he looks at me. The way he handled me in his hotel suite.
The way he fucked me in that bathroom like he couldn't get enough.
I never felt passion like that with Miles.
Not once in three years. With Miles, sex was comfortable.
Routine. Safe. With Dax, it's fire. It's consuming.
It's everything I didn't know I was missing.
But what is it, really? What was once guilt is now something else. Something that makes my chest tighten and my thoughts spiral. Something dangerous. I turn onto my side and close my eyes, willing sleep to come. It takes a long time before it does.
The next morning, we pack up and check out of the hotel.
The car ride to the airport is quieter than the one that brought us here.
We're all tired, ready to go home. I sit by the window on the plane, watching as New York shrinks below us.
The skyline. The buildings. Somewhere down there… is Dax Blackwell.
Leaving him behind should feel like relief. Instead, it feels like a loss. I tell myself it's over. It was just lust. Just sex. Dax isn't serious about me—he can't be. This was probably just a game for him. A challenge. Sleep with his brother's ex-fiancée and then move on to the next conquest.
He's a forty-eight-year-old CEO of a media empire.
He has access to dozens of women. Probably does this kind of thing regularly.
I don't even know him. Not really. I know what he looks like naked.
I know how he feels inside me. But I don't know his favorite food or what makes him laugh or what he does on Sunday mornings.
I need to move on with my life. Figure out what I want. What comes next for my career, my future, everything. This trip was supposed to help me heal from Miles. Instead, it complicated everything.
Jane and Sarah are talking across the aisle, recounting their favorite moments from the trip. The jazz club. The Met. That incredible pasta.
"It was perfect," Sarah says, grinning.
"Exactly what we all needed."
"Agreed." Jane looks at me.
"Scarlett, what was your favorite part?"
I pause for a moment as I flashback to everything that transpired last night and I smile.
"All of it," I say. "The whole trip was amazing. Thank you both."
They beam, satisfied. I turn back to the window and watch the clouds drift past.
My apartment looks exactly the same when I walk through the door later that evening. Same couch. Same kitchen. Same bedroom where I spent three days wallowing after the wedding.
But I feel different. Changed in ways I can't fully articulate.
I drop my suitcase in the hallway and sink onto the couch. My phone sits heavy in my purse. No new messages from Dax. Nothing since those two texts I never answered.
Maybe he got the message. Maybe he's moved on. Maybe I should too.
I pull out my laptop and open my work email. Time to return to reality. My boss sent a message two days ago asking when I'd be back in the office. There are other emails too—project updates, meeting requests, the normal chaos of corporate PR.
I type out a response: I'll be back Monday.
I close my laptop and look around my apartment. Everything is quiet. Empty. Just me and my thoughts.
My phone buzzes. I grab it, my heart jumping. It's just Jane.
Jane: Home safe! Miss you already! Xoxo
I respond quickly:
Scarlett: Miss you too. Thanks again for everything.
I set my phone down and lean back against the couch. After a few minutes, I get up and start unpacking, putting clothes in the hamper, toiletries back in the bathroom. Normal tasks. Normal life.
Monday, I’ll be back at work. Back to reality. New York is over. I need to move forward.