CRIMSON LIES

The air was thick with tension, the kind that sent shivers down the spine—an intoxicating mix of desire and danger. The dim hotel room was bathed in warm, low lighting, casting long shadows on the walls. Yesha sat on the edge of the bed, her silk slip dress clinging to her skin like a whispered secret. Two men lay before her—Roched, smirking with lazy arrogance, and Suno, eyes dark with something unreadable. It was never supposed to be like this. “Tell me, Yesha,” Roched murmured, dragging his fingers over the sheets, “which one of us do you crave more?” Yesha’s breath hitched. His voice was velvet, but there was steel beneath it—dangerously possessive. Her gaze flickered to Suno, who said nothing. He simply stared, his jaw clenched, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. “I—” she hesitated, feeling the weight of both their stares, “I don’t know.” Lies. She knew exactly what she wanted. Suno exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing. “Don’t play games, Yesha,” he finally spoke, his voice lower, rougher. “You knew what you were doing when you let us get this far.” Her heart pounded. Was it excitement? Fear? Or something far more dangerous? “You both think you own me?” she whispered, tilting her chin up, masking her trembling hands. “That I’m just some prize for you to win?” Roched chuckled, slow and deliberate. “Oh, sweetheart,” he drawled, “we already own you. You just haven’t accepted it yet.” The room seemed smaller, suffocating. Suno’s grip tightened on the bed’s edge, his knuckles white. “She’s not a toy, Roched,” he snapped. “Don’t twist this into something ugly.” “Oh, but isn’t it already?” Roched shot back, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Look at her. She’s trembling. Not because she’s afraid—but because she likes it.” Yesha’s breath came in quick, shallow gasps. They weren’t wrong. And that was the worst part. Suno pushed himself up, closer now, his gaze searching hers. “Tell me, Yesha,” he murmured, softer this time, almost pleading. “Tell me to walk away, and I will.” She opened her mouth—but no words came out. Roched smirked. “See?” he murmured, brushing his thumb over her parted lips. “She won’t. Because she can’t.” Yesha’s world was spiraling, caught between two men who set her soul on fire in dangerously different ways. Suno was the storm—intense, brooding, a slow burn that threatened to consume her. Roched was the wildfire—reckless, unrelenting, and utterly intoxicating. And she? She was the fool standing in the middle. The night was far from over.