2. THE RED ROOM
311 Words
Aira didn’t expect the invitation. It came the next morning—a sleek envelope slid beneath her loft door, sealed with deep crimson wax, the same shade as dried blood. Inside was a single line, handwritten in sharp, deliberate strokes:
"Come tonight. Wear nothing ordinary. — D."
There was no address. Just a location pin printed on the back. Aira stared at it for a long time, pulse fluttering like wings in a cage. She didn’t know Damien. Not really. But she felt him—his presence still lingered on her skin like phantom heat.
By midnight, she found herself standing before an old estate nestled on the edge of the city, hidden behind wrought-iron gates and whispering trees. A black door opened before she could knock. No one greeted her, yet something guided her in.
The corridor smelled of sandalwood and secrets.
She followed the velvet-lined walls until she reached the Red Room.
It was bathed in low red light—sensual, warm, suffocating. Heavy curtains veiled the walls. A grand fireplace crackled softly. There was no art, no clutter, no distractions. Just a low chaise, a mirror with a golden frame... and Damien.
He stood near the window, drink in hand, eyes soaking her in.
“You came,” he said, voice smooth like silk over steel.
“You invited,” Aira replied, more breathless than she meant to sound.
He offered her wine. Rich, dark, nearly black. She drank. She shouldn’t have, but she did. The burn was instant, followed by a sweet, drowsy fog that made her head tilt just slightly.
He approached her slowly, like a panther circling its prey, but he never touched her. Instead, he whispered behind her ear, “Every artist has a muse. Every muse, a cost.”
Aira’s breath caught.
In that room, the night stretched long.
And it changed everything.
- Writer
