CHAPTER 5
I don’t remember telling him what floor I’m on. Okay. Calm down, Sera. Maybe everyone’s on the third floor. Maybe it’s a popular floor. Maybe the elevators just default here.
Maybe—
Oh my God.
I suddenly wish that ridiculous story I told him about my sister implanting a tracking chip in my arm was actually true. Because this is exactly how those crime documentaries start.
The elevator dings. We step out. The hallway is too quiet, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of our footsteps. The lighting is soft and yellow, meant to feel warm but somehow making everything look slightly dim. Everything smells faintly of carpet cleaner and fresh sheets.
My room is 108.
We start walking.
105.
106.
For a brief second, I consider running. Just turn around and walk back to the elevator like a person with even the slightest sense of self-preservation. I could say I forgot something or pretend I suddenly remembered an urgent… email.
But my feet keep moving.
107.
108. My door.
Lucien slows beside me, and for a second I think he’s about to stop. Instead, he turns. Directly across the hallway.
Room 107.
My stomach drops. For a moment the entire hallway feels still, like the building itself is watching.
Lucien reaches into his wallet and pulls out a key card.
Oh. Fucking hell. This is his room. Right across from mine.
I stare at the number on the door as the realization settles in.
The universe really isn’t subtle tonight.
It’s practically winking at me. Relief moves through me so suddenly it almost makes me lightheaded.
I’m not about to be murdered. He isn’t some hotel-hopping serial killer with a convincing smile. He’s just… married and inconveniently attractive.
“I’d walk you to your room,” he says, his voice softer now, “but I’m not sure you’d want a stranger knowing your room number.”
Stranger. He says it carefully, like the word matters. “Here,” he adds, opening his door. “Sit for a minute. I’ll get you some water.”
I hesitate only briefly. Then I step inside.
If only he wasn’t married. The thought settles in my chest before I can push it away. Images surface without permission, his hands, the steady way he looks at me, the quiet intensity in his voice when he says my name.
Stop.
I sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly aware of the silence in the room.
The low hum of the air conditioner. The small distance between us that feels thinner than it should.
He returns with a glass of water and places it in my hand.
Our fingers brush and my pulse jumps. So this is what choosing myself looks like.
Standing in another man’s hotel room, pretending the reason I’m here is something simple.
Do I do this? Am I really capable of becoming the same kind of person who just shattered my life?
A homewrecker.
The word settles heavily in my chest. Make the decision, Sera.
My heart beats louder with every second that passes.
I exhale slowly. No. I can’t do this. I won’t become the thing that just destroyed me.
It’s wrong. All of it. I open my mouth, ready to say something sensible.
Something responsible. Something that sounds like the version of me who believes in restraint and moral high ground.
Before I can speak, he exhales quietly.
“Abby isn’t my wife,” he says.
My brow furrows.
“My brother,” he adds. “Abraham. Abby’s just… what we call him.” The words take a second to settle. “He’s the one who called me.”
Everything inside me pauses. “What?”
The air between us shifts. Guilt arrives first. Relief follows right behind it, sharp, almost embarrassing.
He sits beside me on the edge of the bed.
Not touching. Just close enough that I can feel the warmth of him.
Our eyes meet. My lips part slightly, like I’m about to tell him to step away, to remind both of us that this is a terrible idea. But the words never come.
He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room worth noticing. “God,” he murmurs softly, almost like the words surprised him. “You’re beautiful.”
The compliment doesn’t hit all at once. It spreads slowly through me.
Like oxygen reaching somewhere that’s been starved of it.
Dominic hasn’t looked at me like that in a long time.
Maybe he never did. My heartbeat stumbles.
This is the kind of moment that changes things and it’s exactly the kind of moment I promised myself I wouldn’t allow.
Before I can decide, before I can choose logic over loneliness, his hand brushes my cheek. Soft, tentative, giving me time to pull away. I don’t. His lips touch mine. Slow at first, testing, asking. And for one terrifying, electric second, I forget everything.
My shirt falls down both arms, I lean back to his hold.
His mouth grazes down my neck as I tip my head back.
His hands found my waist, and I bucked my hips off the bed to help him remove my socks, my jeans.
He deepened the kiss, and I wrapped my legs around his back, hooking him closer.
He tore his lips from my mouth to my neck, where he dragged his teeth and tongue down my skin as his hands went up, up, to cup my breasts.
His mouth eats me up, moving over me, kissing the corners of my mouth and nibbling the flesh of my bottom lip, and I put my hand on his and guide him down, pushing him to the V between my legs.
His kissing falters as he gasps. And for one suspended second, I melt into it.
Into the warmth. Into the feeling of being wanted instead of discarded.
But then, he freezes.
His hand tightens slightly at my waist before pulling back like he’s touched something that burns. Forehead resting lightly against mine, breathing uneven. “Fuck,” he exhales under his breath. Guilt flashes across his face. Not regret for me, but something deeper. Something older.
“I shouldn’t…” he murmurs. And suddenly I don’t know which one of us he’s trying to protect. The room feels smaller. Air is heavier. My lips still tingle and I realize this might be worse than if he hadn’t stopped at all.
“I—” My voice breaks. “I’m sorry. This is a mistake.”
I’m stuttering now. God. Pull it together, Sera. The ache inside me comes rushing back like it never left. Tight. Crushing. Tears burn my eyes before I can stop them. Tears. Fucking tears. I swipe at them angrily, but it’s too late. He looks at me like I’m broken. Not disgusted. Not annoyed.
Broken.
Like I’m something fragile that fell off a shelf and he’s trying to decide how to put the pieces back together. That almost makes it worse. His thumb brushes under my eye, wiping away a tear slowly. Gently. Like I might shatter if he moves too fast.
“Don’t be sorry,” he says quietly. “This is probably the most cliché thing I’ll say tonight, but… sometimes things happen for a reason.”
A small, shaky laugh slips out of me. “Either that,” I whisper, “or things happen for no reason at all.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying me. Then he shrugs, thoughtful. “Maybe we decide that part,” he says. “If you believe things happen for a reason, then they do. Your brain will connect the dots until the story makes sense.”
I blink. “…What?”
His mouth curves faintly. “If you believe it’s all random chaos, then that’s what it becomes too,” he adds. “We’re pretty good at shaping our own realities.”
So he’s handsome and thoughtful. Despite myself, I laugh. A real one this time, small, but real. It loosens something tight in my chest. He’s still close. Still warm. Still looking at me like I’m something worth understanding instead of discarding which might be the most dangerous thing of all.
For a moment neither of us moves. Then I stand, setting the empty glass on the nightstand.
“I should probably go,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.
Lucien nods once, like he expected that answer.
We step out into the hallway together. The door clicks shut behind us, and the quiet returns immediately, thick and hotel-clean.
Room 108. Right across from him. I turn toward him, crossing my arms loosely. “I’d say you should walk me to my room,” I tell him, “but it’s literally right there.”
I gesture toward the door across the hallway.
His mouth curves. “That would be a very short escort.”
“Efficiency is important.” I say.
He leans casually against his door for a second, studying me with that same thoughtful look. “You know,” he says, “most people would call this a coincidence.”
“And you don’t?”
“I think coincidences are just lazy explanations,” he replies.
“For what?” I questioned.
“For things that were always going to happen anyway.” My heartbeat stumbles a little at that. He straightens, pushing away from the door. “So,” he adds lightly, “technically I did walk you to your room.”
I glance at the two steps between us. “That was barely two feet.”
“Still counts.”
I reach for my key card. The lock beeps. I hesitate for half a second before opening the door. When I look back at him, he’s still watching me.
Not intense. Not possessive. Just… there.
“Goodnight, Sera,” he says quietly. The way he says my name makes something in me pull tight, quiet but impossible to ignore.
“Goodnight, Lucien.” I step inside and close the door. And for a long moment, I just stand there in the quiet. Listening. Half-expecting to hear his door open across the hall. Half-hoping it will.
I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. I hate that I have butterflies. I hate that Dominic broke my heart. But maybe it had been fractured for a long time, and tonight was just the moment I finally noticed. The pieces of my heart are still here. Not empty. Just… rearranged.
I try not to picture her. But my brain does it anyway.
Her back, her long blonde hair falling down her shoulders.
I never saw her face. That’s all I saw. Maybe that’s for the best. Because if I don’t give her a face, she stays less real.
Less human. Just a silhouette standing in the doorway of my marriage.
And I find myself wondering something I wish I didn’t care about. Was she married too? Was there another ring somewhere in that room? Another person who trusted her. Another person who had no idea.
The thought twists somewhere in my chest. Two people tangled up in my bed like vows are optional. Like rings are decorative. Like promises are flexible depending on the mood. I stare harder at the ceiling. Was she prettier? Did she laugh louder? Did she do the things I wouldn’t?
I hate that my brain does this. The comparisons. The measuring. The quiet shrinking of myself. Blonde versus black hair. Bold versus careful. Her versus me. And somehow I’m the one left standing outside the door while they stayed warm upstairs.
Pathetic.
Not her.
Me.