CHAPTER 3
Mini Bar
Fuck the minibar.
I want a real drink. Not hotel-sized liquor and the illusion of comfort. I hit the elevator and ride down to the hotel bar, already imagining the bartender shaking something strong enough to numb a week’s worth of regret.
It’s Sunday. The Lord’s Day.
Maybe I should start going to church again. Sit in the back pew. Fold my hands. Pretend I still know the words. Maybe I’ll find my way back. Because God always seems to show up when your life is in ruins. When suffering is the only thing that feels honest.
I don’t know if I’d be welcomed, though. Not with this kind of anger sitting in my chest. Not with betrayal still clinging to my skin. I’m not sure what confession I’d even start with.
Forgive me, Father, for I have been blind.
It’s unsettling how quickly faith fades when life looks steady. When your marriage appears intact. When you mistake comfort for favor.
I didn’t lose belief. I just stopped reaching for it. Filed it away for emergencies and not for ordinary happiness. And now I’m reaching again. Not out of devotion but out of collapse. I used to think love meant I was protected. Now I’m not sure what it ever meant at all.
I order a Tequila and tip the shot back like I know what I’m doing. Like this is routine. It isn’t. Then I order another. “One more shot, please.”
The burn hits late and vicious. I choke on it, cough once, then try to swallow it down like I meant to do that. I am not a drinker. And my body is making that very clear. I also don’t smoke. I don’t do drugs. I don’t even allow myself a second cup of coffee because one feels indulgent enough.
Moderation has always been my thing. Control. Restraint. Is that why he cheated? I glance at the mirror behind the bar. My bun is collapsing. Black hair strands slipping loose. My mascara smudged just enough to make me look unhinged. There’s a faint crease in my blouse I didn’t notice before.
Is that a stain? Of course there is. God, Era pull yourself together. This is probably why he’s with someone else. Because of this version of you. The tired one. The careful one. The woman who folds laundry on Sundays. The woman who thought ordinary meant safe.
I slide the black hair tie off my wrist and pull it from my hair. It falls over my shoulders, long and dark. He used to love my hair down. I smooth it once, catching my reflection again. I look different. Not better. Just… less defeated.
Almost convincing.
Shot three burns going down. I check my phone again as if I’m expecting it to light up. Not with excuses but with desperation.
I made a mistake.
I love you.
Please come back.
I need to see you.
Something forgiving. Something that would make me drop everything and run back like none of this happened. Because I would. That’s the humiliating part. He doesn’t even know I saw. Which means the silence isn’t guilt because It’s normal.
“Hey. Is this seat open?” I turn and there he is. The guy from the plane. Sleeves still rolled. Same steady posture. Familiar in a way that feels almost intentional. His hair falls slightly forward, like he hasn’t bothered adjusting it since landing.
And those damn green eyes. Calm and direct. They don’t rush away when I meet them.
Oh. Okay.
My brain, apparently drunk and reckless, offers up a suggestion. Potential one-night stand.
No.
Stop.
I blink and glance around. There are empty seats everywhere but he just wants a chair. That’s it.
Good God, Era. Get a grip.
“Fourth one’s on me,” he says, nodding toward the bartender.
And there it is again, that flicker. I manage a small smile. It feels foreign on my face, like I’m borrowing it from someone braver.
“Bad day?” he asks. “I don’t usually see someone take three shots that fast unless something went very wrong.”
“You can call it that.”
He waits. Doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t fill the silence.
“Actually… yeah.” I exhale. “It’s been a really messed-up two days.”
He doesn’t look surprised. “I found out my husband’s been cheating,” I say. The words land flat between us.
“Walked in. Saw them upstairs.” I swallow. “And the worst part? I didn’t say anything. I just left. Like if I stayed quiet, maybe it wouldn’t be real.”
The confession hangs there. I don’t know why I told him. Maybe because he’s a stranger. Maybe because strangers don’t expect you to stay. Maybe because for the first time tonight, someone is looking at me and I’m not invisible.
Then his hand moves, and I catch it, the band on his finger.
Unremarkable. Unapologetic. Just there. My stomach tightens, and I release a slow breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
I look away before my face betrays anything.
He studies me for a moment, like he’s deciding whether I’m worth the conversation.
Then he lifts his glass slightly.
“Lucien,” he says.
I hesitate a second longer than necessary.
“Sera,” I say. The name feels strange on my tongue. My real name is Serafina, but the people closest to me usually call me Era.
Era is the name that belongs to the life I just walked out of. Era is the woman who believed everything was fine. Tonight, I don’t feel like her. “Sera” feels different. Like something slightly removed from the wreckage I left behind.
“Short for something?” he asks.
“Serafina.”
He repeats it slowly, testing the sound of it. “Serafina.” Something about the way he says it makes it feel unfamiliar again.
“Most people call me Era,” I add, “but tonight… Sera works.”
He nods once, like that makes perfect sense. “Well, Sera,” he says, a faint smile touching the corner of his mouth, “nice to meet you.”
“And that explains the attitude.” He adds.
I blink at him. “Excuse me?”
He nods toward the empty glasses in front of me. “Three shots in under five minutes,” he says, almost casually. Lucien studies me for a moment, like he’s deciding how far to push it. Then he lifts his glass, that restrained half-smile appearing again.
“The speed was warranted.” He says.
I manage a faint smile.
If he makes a move… would I stop him? The question lands heavier than I expect. Would I do it? Just once. Just to prove something. To even the scale.
Why not?
Did she hesitate?
Did she look at the photos in my house, our house, and feel even a flicker of shame?
She had to know.
My face is in every hallway. Our wedding framed above the staircase. Holidays. Birthdays. Five years of a life displayed like evidence.
She knew. So why am I the only one expected to be moral? If he leans closer… would I let him? Would that make me her? Or would it just make me tired of being the only one who plays by the rules?
And why is he even here? Seat-switch guy from the plane. Same hotel. Same bar. Does he work where I work? Is he here for the conference too? An intern, maybe. Or something worse, an executive with rolled sleeves and a careful smile.
How serendipitous, or maybe just suspicious. New York isn’t small. Neither is this hotel. So what are the odds?
I glance at him again. Calm. Observant. Unbothered. Like he isn’t accidentally standing at the edge of my worst possible decision. I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you following me?”
He doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks amused. He gives me a small smile. “You think I’d need to?”
I roll my eyes, but my pulse betrays me. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s New York,” he says. “Big city. Expensive hotel. Coincidences happen.”
“Convenient ones.” I say.
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “You sound disappointed.”
“I sound cautious.”
“Good,” he replies. “You should be.” Then he lifts his beer and takes a slow sip, his gaze never leaving mine. Patient. Like he has nowhere else to be. After a beat, he adds, quieter, “If I were following you, you’d know.”
He lowers the glass. Still watching me. And I hate that my stomach flips anyway.
My phone buzzes.
Clara.
Be reckless, not careless.
How exactly does one be reckless and responsible?
Degeneracy and caution don’t coexist. They cancel each other out.
It’s almost unsettling how she knows exactly when to text and exactly what to say.
Clara runs on instinct. She calls it intuition and I call it witchcraft.
She’s always been like that, the family mystic.
The one who claims she can “feel shifts.” When we were younger, I once handed her twenty dollars to perform some manifestation ritual so I’d pass my geometry test.
I aced it and I’ve never doubted her again.
Be a walking bad decision. But careful. That’s such a Clara sentence. Reckless, but strategic. Chaos with boundaries.
“I should go,” I say, standing before I can talk myself into staying. “It was nice meeting you. And… thanks for the drink.” I’ve never had a one-night stand. Maybe I’ll keep it that way. Preserve whatever fragile piece of me isn’t already cracked open.
I start toward the elevator, aiming for composition and probably landing somewhere near unsteady.
“Sera.”
My name stops me.
I turn, and he’s walking toward me now. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just deliberate. And suddenly I’m not sure whether he’s my mistake or my warning. “I was wondering if you’re up for it,” he says, almost casually. “A little escape. I want to show you something.”
A little escape.
Those words have ended badly for women in every true crime documentary I’ve ever watched. I should say no. I really should. But there’s something in the way he says it. Not pushy. Not rehearsed.
Just certain.
And certainty is dangerous.
“Just so you know,” I say, lifting my arm slightly, “my sister implanted a tracker in me. She can see my location at all times.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s… concerning. But also impressive. I’ve never met a walking GPS before.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” I say.
The words sit between us longer than they should. He steps just a fraction closer, not enough to crowd me, just enough to shift the air. I catch a trace of his cologne. Clean. Subtle. Uncomplicated.
“Meet me here at five,” he says. “Get some sleep. Get ready.”
“Ready for what?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. That almost-smile again.
“An adventure,” he says. “Trust me.”
Trust. That word shouldn’t feel sharp. But it does.
He walks away like he already assumes I’ll show up.
And I hate that he might be right. Upstairs, the elevator doors slide open with a quiet chime.
The hallway is long. Carpeted. Muted. Room numbers line the walls in clean, brushed metal.
102, 104, 106. I drag my suitcase behind me, the wheels sounding too loud against the thick carpet.
108.
I slide the key card in. The light blinks green. For a second, I just stand there, hand still on the handle. Inside is temporary. Neutral. No memories yet.
I push the door open. It smells staged. A space designed to be occupied, not inhabited. I drop my bag near the desk and kick off my shoes without looking where they land. The city hums faintly beyond the window, distant and uncaring. I lie back on the hotel bed and stare at the ceiling.
It’s perfectly smooth. No cracks. Untouched. There’s a stranger downstairs offering me something undefined and there’s a man back home who already shattered something I can’t put back together.
One is a risk and the other is a guarantee.
I can go downstairs with a man I barely know, a man who could ruin me in ways I haven’t even imagined or I can go back to the one who already has. Those are my options. And somewhere between recklessness and humiliation is me. Trying to decide which damage I’m more willing to survive.
My hand drifts to my ring. The gold band catches the faint light from the lamp beside the bed. I stare at it for a long moment.
Once upon a time, that ring meant something simple.
I remember Dominic in our kitchen on Sunday mornings, flour on his hands because he insisted he could make pancakes better than any restaurant.
I remember the way he used to pull me toward him while I was trying to cook, spinning me around the kitchen like we were dancing.
The way we laughed when the music was too loud and we couldn’t hear each other, shouting the wrong lyrics anyway. I remember long drives with the windows down, his hand on my thigh while he sang terribly to songs on the radio. The way he used to look at me like I was the only person in the room.
We were playful once. Careless. Happy.
My chest tightens so suddenly it steals the air from my lungs. The ache spreads slowly, like something heavy sinking through my ribs.
It feels like drowning. Like you’re sinking deeper and deeper under dark water, your chest burning for air while the surface grows farther away. And for one quiet moment you almost wish death would come, just to end the panic, the pressure, the endless sinking.
But it doesn’t. You just keep drowning. The pain doesn’t stop. My chest is burning with screams. A sob rips out of me before I can stop it. I grab the pillow and press it over my mouth, trying to swallow the sound, curling into myself until my knees pull up to my chest.
The tears won’t stop. They shake through my body, harsh and broken, until my throat hurts and my eyes burn and the room blurs around me. I cry like that for what feels like forever. Until exhaustion finally drags me under.
And somewhere between the sobs and the silence, I fall asleep.