Her One Night Stand

Salma had always hated silence. It was too loud, too honest. In silence, you could hear your own thoughts—the doubts, the fears, the ugly truths she's dressed in designer gowns and fake smiles. But tonight, as she stood before the towering mirror in her bridal suite, silence wrapped itself around her like a suffocating veil. The gown was beautiful, of course. Everything about this day was beautiful. The orchids imported from Brazil. The crystal chandelier that dripped from the ceiling like frozen rain. The lace veil sewn by a Parisian designer who was flown in just for her. Everything sparkled, everything gleamed. Everything except her. Salma’s reflection looked perfect: flawless skin, sculpted cheekbones, eyes lined in the black precision of a makeup artist’s steady hand. She was the face on every billboard in Los Angeles, the model who made headlines with every runway walk. But behind the makeup and diamonds, she looked at herself and saw only a cage. Her father’s cage. “Salma,” a voice boomed from outside the door. Her father’s. Deep, commanding. The kind of voice that didn’t ask—it ordered. “Ten minutes. Lukas is waiting.” Lukas Moritz. The man she was meant to marry tonight. Her father’s business partner. A man twice her age, whose fortune came not from sweat or genius but from corruption, from the kind of deals whispered in back rooms with blood-stained handshakes. She should have been flattered. A marriage that would merge two dynasties, cement her father’s empire, and elevate her from model to heiress of untouchable power. But instead, Salma felt sick. The diamond ring on her finger glared back at her from the mirror. She wanted to rip it off, to throw it, to scream. Instead, she smoothed the satin of her dress, forcing her hands to stay steady. Her heart, however, refused to behave. It pounded in her chest like a caged bird, wings slamming against bars. This isn’t my life. This isn’t my choice. I can’t do this. She thought. Her phone buzzed on the vanity. It was Sophia. Your makeup is flawless, babe. You look like a goddess. Just say “I do,” and your life is set. Salma’s lips twisted bitterly. Sophia. Her closest friend—or so she believed. As model who knew what it meant to survive in this world of sharks. Salma typed back quickly: I can’t breathe. There was no reply. She stared at herself one last time. At the glossy perfection that everyone else saw. And then, without a word, she grabbed her purse slide in the two nearest ATM card, sunglasses and her phone, before she lifted the hem of her gown, gathered the skirts, and moved. Not toward the altar. Not toward Lukas. But toward the back door she had memorized from the day she first stepped into this mansion. Her heels clicked against the marble. Her breaths were ragged, shallow. Every second felt like a crime. Every shadow felt like an accusation. She didn’t stop to think. She didn’t stop to breathe. She only stopped when the night air hit her face like a slap—cool, sharp, liberating. The street was empty, save for the flicker of a broken streetlight and the low hum of distant traffic. The gown tangled around her legs as she ran, but she didn’t care. She kicked off her heels, picking them from asphalt and inserting them into her purse, jewels catching the light as if mocking her. Somewhere behind her, her father’s world was waiting. But tonight, for the first time, she wasn’t his puppet. She wasn’t Lukas’s bride. She wasn’t a name on a contract. She was just Salma. And she was running. She didn’t know how long she ran. The streets blurred around her, neon lights glowing against the night sky, horns honking in the distance, the sound of the city alive while her chest burned from every step. The satin gown dragged behind her, heavy and wrong, like the life she was leaving. She stopped at the corner of a busy street, her breaths quick and uneven. People stared. Some lifted their phones, snapping photos of the famous model in a wedding dress running barefoot through downtown L.A. She didn’t care. Let them talk. Her name had been in the headlines all her life—this would just be another scandal for her father to bury. Her hands shook as she flagged down a cab. The driver raised a brow when she slipped inside, gown spilling into the seat like a flood of white. “Where to, miss?” he asked. Salma hesitated. Where did a runaway bride even go? She couldn’t go home. She couldn’t go to friends; her father had eyes everywhere. Her lips parted before her brain caught up. “Take me somewhere loud,” she said. “A club. Any club.” she added. The man chuckled. “Rough wedding night, huh?” She turned her face toward the window, blinking away the sting in her eyes. “Something like that.” CLUB~ The club was everything she asked for. Dark, crowded, wild. Music pounded from the walls, the bass rattling her bones. Lights flashed red and blue across sweaty bodies grinding against each other on the dance floor. Salma slipped inside unnoticed at first, keeping her veil tucked low. But a woman in a wedding dress was always going to draw attention. Heads turned. Whispers started. She didn’t care. She pushed through the crowd until she reached the bar, sliding onto a stool and exhaling for the first time all night. “Vodka. Straight.” she ordered, placing her purse on the counter. The bartender blinked, eyes darting to her gown, then poured without asking questions. The liquid burned her throat, sharp and merciless. She welcomed it. Another glass. And another. Each one numbing the ache inside her chest until the music felt like it was vibrating through her soul. For one night, she didn’t want to be Salma Rodriguez, daughter of the great Mr. Rodriguez, the model with the perfect face. She wanted to be no one. She wanted to drown. That’s when she saw him. Leaning against the far end of the bar. Broad shoulders, dark suit, hair falling carelessly across his forehead. He wasn’t dancing, wasn’t drinking, just watching the room like he owned it. His presence was magnetic, dangerous. People moved around him without even realizing it, like gravity bent to him. Her heart stuttered. Something about him made her want to look away, but she couldn’t. He didn’t smile. Didn’t wink. He just… stared. And somehow, she stared back. “Rough night?” a voice said beside her. Salma jumped slightly, realizing he had moved closer. The stranger’s voice was deep, smooth, carrying the kind of confidence that didn’t need effort. She forced a laugh, though it came out broken. “You could say that.” His eyes flicked to the gown, then back to her face. “Did you leave someone at the altar?” Her throat tightened. The truth was too heavy to swallow, so she lifted the glass instead, letting the vodka answer for her. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but something close. He slid a glass toward her, the amber liquid catching the light. “Try whiskey. Vodka’s for forgetting. Whiskey’s for surviving.” "I'm Kelvin," he introduced. "Salma," she muttered. She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t. But her hand wrapped around the glass anyway. Their fingers brushed, just a second. The burn of the whiskey was smoother, warmer. She closed her eyes, letting it settle. When she opened them again, he was still watching her. Those eyes—dark, unreadable—looked at her in a way she's already use to.Not like a model. But like a pawn. He's in for her body but she didn't care. She was halfway through another whiskey when she noticed the woman. A lady approached him. Tall. Curvy. Dressed in a glittering gold dress that clung to her every move. She swayed toward him like she owned the room, like she had already claimed him. Salma’s chest tightened. She told herself it wasn’t jealousy—why would she care? She didn’t even know much about him aside his name. But her hand curled tighter around her glass as the woman leaned in, too close, whispering in his ear before sliding a drink across the bar. He hesitated. Just a second. Then, with a faint smirk, he lifted it and drank. Salma’s heart dropped. Why did she feel like she’d lost something? Why did it matter if he wanted someone else? She didn’t know him. He wasn’t hers. Still, the bitterness rose like fire in her throat, mixing with the alcohol. Enraged she grabbed her purse pulled out her heels and wore them before walking away. The alcohol had numbed her, but her thoughts were louder than ever. Each step outside the club felt heavier, her heels clacking against the pavement as she staggered through the city lights. She wasn’t sure how she managed it, but her blurry vision led her to a hotel. The marble lobby spun before her eyes, yet she fumbled for her father’s emergency card—the one she always swore she’d never use. By some miracle, she found herself in a hallway, weaving toward a door. But before she reached her own, she noticed one already cracked open. A woman slipped out, smirking to herself as she held an empty glass. She looked pleased—too pleased—as she swayed past Salma without a word. Salma’s foggy brain sparked with curiosity. Her pulse quickened. Something inside her screamed that this wasn’t her business. But the liquor burned through her logic, replacing it with boldness she didn’t recognize. She shoved the door wider and stumbled in. The room was dim, shadows stretching across sleek furniture. She didn’t notice the man on the bed until she slumped forward, collapsing onto the mattress with a heavy sigh. The sheets smelled like cologne, sharp and intoxicating. Her eyes fluttered shut. “...What are you doing here?” The voice was deep. Rough. The kind of voice that could command a room with just one word. Salma’s heart skipped. She didn’t open her eyes—her lids felt too heavy—but his voice stirred something dangerous inside her. A craving. She shifted, pretending to be asleep. But her breathing gave her away. A low sigh followed, and then the warmth of a hand brushed her cheek. Fingers tapping lightly, coaxing her back. Something inside her snapped. Without thinking, without caring, she grabbed his wrist and pulled him closer—so close that her lips crashed against his. The kiss was wild, desperate, tasting of whiskey and mistakes. He tensed, resisting at first, his hand pressing against the bed as though to push away. But she didn’t let go. Her fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him down with her. Her mouth moved against his like she’d been starving and only he could feed her. And slowly… his resistance melted. But tonight, nothing was right. Tonight, she wasn’t herself. The alcohol in her system mixed with something heavier—heartbreak, anger, rebellion. Her body moved on instinct, not thought. She pressed her lips harder against his, tasting surprise in the way his breath caught. He hesitated. His hand lingered midair as if he wasn’t sure whether to push her away or hold her. Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, his palm found the curve of her jaw. The warmth of his skin against hers sent a shiver racing down her spine. Salma’s heart thundered. The deep voice that had spoken only seconds ago stirred something in her she didn’t want to name. She was supposed to be running, hiding, starting over. Not here. Not with him. Not tonight.