DUMPED

CHAPTER THREE

AN ESCAPE

Ceicly

"Here are your keys, ma'am. That way to the elevator," the lady behind the counter points to a metal door on the right along the spacious hallway. "Third floor, room number 06. Do enjoy your stay." She flashes her perfect white teeth. I don't respond, already on my way.

The hotel, which I didn't bother checking the name of, looks aesthetically pleasing. Not like I care, just need a place to crash before I begin house hunting.

Inside, I take off my wedding dress, rolling it into a ball and dumping it in the waste bin. Crazy how my life keeps falling apart.

I sink into the neatly dressed, gigantic bed, letting my emotions take over me. I hate myself for crying for a man who did me dirty, and is probably still f**kin' the hell out of who is supposed to be my sister. I hate that I let him do me dirty. That I didn't see the signs up until the altar. I never believed love is blind, like they always say. I still don't, but I think I'm very foolish.

I grab some wipes from my bag, cleaning my horrible-looking face, then move to the shower, maybe I might feel a little better afterwards.

I don't.

Staring at the bed, I wonder for a while if it will be a better idea, but there really is no need to deceive myself. Sleep won't be forthcoming either. I know.

I grab the remote of the medium-sized TV hanging on the wall, switching it on. Perhaps a little distraction will help, but my jaw drops at the first image on display. The video coverage of my wedding is on display with the huge caption: BUSINESS TYCOON PATRICK BAXTER'S DAUGHTER DITCHED AT THE ALTAR.

No... no, this isn't right.

My stomach tightens as it plays on. Now what? What do I do with my shame in public? How do I face my colleagues, my boss? And my reputation? I'm now the talk of the town for something shameful. I change the channel quickly to the next, and the next, and the next, but the same news is still on display.

I smash the remote on the wall, and it comes down with a crashing sound. Quickly, I put on a white t-shirt and a pair of black shorts, rolling my hair into a bun, as I dash out, unable to stand the tense air in my room and the tightening in my chest. I should feel better after a drink or two.

The bar is alive with the soft thumping sounds of Celine Dion, and the smell of whisky and cigarettes fills the air. Minus the crowd and noise, this soothes my mood perfectly.

"A glass of whisky, please," I say to the plump man behind the counter. He looks up at me with a rather weird expression, which is understandable, considering that I'm the only one dressed casually.

Apparently, the bar seems to be hosting important guests for an event tonight. I really don't care. The bartender pours my drink, and I take in the gold liquid in one gulp, a sigh of relief escaping my lips as it burns its way down my throat. "Another, please," he refills, but refuses when I ask for the sixth glass.

"Ma'am, you've had enough for the night," he blurts. "No more."

How dare he? The audacity. However, I hate to admit that he's right, considering my now blurry vision.

"Can I have a tequila instead?"

The soft music plays on, the dim light doing no good to my vision as I look around, then back to the bartender, feeling an urge to break the awkward silence between us.

"Do you... Believe in love?" I stutter.

"Of course I do. As a matter of fact, I can't wait to go home to my wife."

Intriguing, but for some reason sounds irritating. 'Well, I don't. I stopped believing some hours ago." How does that even sound? Goodness, Ceicly, shut up already!

"Sorry about that. I hope you find love someday," he says after a while, continuing with the glass he's been wiping for what seems like an eternity.

No, I won't find love this time. How about love finds me? How cringe. This must be the alcohol, not me.

My favourite song, Celine Dion's "Will Always Love You" begins thumping slowly. It reminds me a lot of mum, who has always been her favourite. She's always been a lover of love, loved Dad too much for her own good. He claimed to love her, but his true colours surfaced. He didn't wait a single day to bring his mistress and their one-year-old daughter, shattering our lives up until now. I shouldn't think about this right now.

My attention goes back to the music as I let it sink in. I hear a deep masculine voice behind me.

"Hello Angel, may I have this dance?"

I look behind my gaze, falling on a 6 or 6'5ft angel. He's dressed in a clean, jet black suit, with green seductive eyes matching his green inner shirt. His hair is in a buzz cut style, full, noticeable eyebrows, long lashes, caramel skin tone, and a clean shave with a little mustache that makes you want to think about bed play.

A dance to my favourite song, with an angelic man? I would love that. But who is this man?

"May I?" He smiles cutely, ignoring how confused I look. He wouldn't bite. Just a dance, right? This could be just what I need, a dance to lift my mood.

Without a second thought, I take his hand, and we begin dancing slowly to the music. His hands on my waist, mine on his shoulders. It is casual, his breath fanning mine, but things get steamy the moment he plants a kiss first on my forehead, then my lips. I don't refuse, I should. But I take him in as well, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach and tossing every feeling of guilt out the window.

We dance our way to the elevator, next to his exclusive bedroom, where things get steamier. He is making me remember what it feels like to be a woman, better than any man ever had, and I am receiving him fully.

I should resist. Preserve my sanity.

Santiy?

I already lost that. And if this is a way I get back at Bruno, I will in the best way possible.

I cling to his neck tightly as he effortlessly lifts me off the ground to the gigantic bed. Other protocols happen in a flash, leaving us bare-bodied, to the scrutiny of each other. That didn't matter, though; the lights are off.

The warmth of him somehow numbs the pain I feel in my heart. Nothing else matters other than the beauty of the moment; I can't help it.

I drift away.

******

The sound of running water jolts me awake.

Slowly, my eyes open, dilating as I look around me, unable to fathom where I am, let alone remember a thing. The more I try, the more an excruciating headache brings me back to square one.

"I'm aware of your terms, Father. Stop nagging me like a child!" I hear a voice from the bathroom.

Terms? Father?

Shit, Ceicly, think. Where tf am I?"

I close my eyes again, mentally assessing myself. slowly, last night's ordeal begins resurfacing bit by bit.

The bar...The elevator.

"NO.." I peep through the huge duvet around me, seeing my naked state, and I wrap it around me quickly again.

"s**t, Steve, father is getting on my last nerve. How many times do I need to tell him to give me time?"

That voice. I know that voice.

I picture the man from last night, every detail resurfacing this time. He is on me. kissing, fingering, and smooching. It felt so good. His tongue was surveying between my legs, sending electric waves through me.

I reach for my breast, and I can feel my n****e hardening into nuts. Though my genitals still feel tender, I know I'm wet.

The sudden pause of running water brings back my senses. I shouldn't feel s**t right now. I need to disappear before that man steps out. What if he has a video of last night? What if I make it to the news again, this time about me shamelessly sleeping with a stranger?

Shit, I don't even know his name. What if I get pregnant?

I pick my clothes quickly, piece by piece, from the corners of the tiled floor where they've been tossed carelessly. Next, I grab my flats, wriggle my feet in as I make my way to the exit. Just as I reach for its handle, the bathroom door clicks open. I freeze at the sight of his towering figure as he struts out, his dark hair dripping wet. I watch as the water trails its way, guiding my eyes to his broad chest, the hair on it glittering.

His thighs dangle with every step forward, his big c**k unavoidably visible, thanks to the towel doing little to conceal his handsomeness.

Gosh! This is the man responsible for the tenderness between my legs... why do I feel so wet just by the sight of him?

A snap of his fingers with an ugly look from him to me makes me realize my mouth has been open the entire time.

"Do you stare for a living?"

Shit, how long have I been staring?!