Whispers Of Desire

Back to Reality

The sound of clattering dishes jolted me awake. For a second, I didn’t know where I was. Then I blinked at the peeling ceiling above me, at the narrow sunlight slipping through the blinds, and reality returned like a splash of cold water. I wasn’t in a chandelier-lit ballroom anymore. I was in my tiny studio apartment in Queens, where the walls were too thin and the neighbors’ arguments doubled as my alarm clock. The glamour of last night felt like a dream I had stolen, one that didn’t belong to me. Groaning, I pushed myself out of bed and caught sight of my reflection in the cracked mirror above the dresser. My hair was a mess, makeup smudged at the corners of my eyes, the borrowed black dress hanging limply from the chair. For a fleeting second, I almost laughed at myself. Who was I kidding? Girls like me don’t dance with Alexander Stone. And yet… I closed my eyes, and the memory of his hand around mine burned like an ember that refused to die. His voice — deep, smooth, unhurried — still whispered in my ears. “Most people here are pretending. But you… you don’t seem to be pretending at all.” Why did that matter to him? Why did I matter at all? Shaking it off, I showered quickly and threw on my work uniform: plain white blouse, black skirt, apron tied too tight around my waist. Another twelve-hour shift at Café Romano waited for me, with coffee burns and cranky customers as my reward. When I arrived, Marissa was already behind the counter, grinning at me like she’d been waiting for this moment all night. “Well, well,” she sing-songed as she poured a cappuccino. “If it isn’t Cinderella herself.” “Don’t start,” I muttered, tying my apron. “Don’t start?” She leaned across the counter, eyes wide. “Elena, you danced with Alexander Stone. Do you understand what that means?” “It means he was being polite.” “It means,” she insisted, “you got noticed by one of the most powerful men in the city. He doesn’t dance. He doesn’t look at anyone like that. Trust me, I’ve read enough tabloids to know.” I rolled my eyes, but my heart betrayed me, thudding at her words. He doesn’t look at anyone like that. The way his gaze had held mine… the way I had felt stripped bare under it… Stop it, Elena. “He probably forgot me five minutes later,” I said, grabbing a tray. But even as I carried lattes to a corner table, I knew I didn’t believe it.