CHAPTER 2: FIVE YEARS AGO: MR STRANGER
1006 Words
She drank.
Laughed softly when he said something dry and clever.
Listened like his voice was music under her skin.
She didn’t know if it was the champagne or the violin or the fact that he looked at her like she was the only unclaimed thing in the room — but something about him pulled her in like gravity.
Maybe it wasn’t love.
Maybe it was admiration. Curiosity.
Maybe it was just the way he saw her — like she wasn’t invisible for once.
She tried to find Linda before leaving. Scanned the glittering ballroom for that unmistakable shade of red hair, that flash of silver heels. But her sister was gone — probably tangled in the arms of some heir or oil prince by now.
And so Anika followed him.
His car — if you could even call it that — looked like it belonged in a museum. Sleek, black, quiet. The leather interior smelled like something old and expensive. Her fingers trembled slightly as she closed the door behind her.
The city blurred past in flashes of gold and rainlight.
They arrived at The Langham, one of the most exclusive hotels in London — the kind with uniformed doormen and marble that shone like water. She shouldn’t have been there. Not in that dress, not in those shoes, not with that man.
But she walked in anyway. Right beside him.
---
In the elevator, he didn’t touch her.
But the tension pressed down on her like gravity.
In the suite — glass walls, velvet chairs, a view of the London skyline — he poured her another drink. She barely tasted it.
And then, at some point, his hand brushed her waist. Light. Gentle. Asking.
She didn’t say no.
She couldn’t.
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It happened fast. Or maybe it was slow. She couldn’t tell anymore.
There was a kiss — deep and quiet and certain — and then her back hit the mattress like falling into water. Clothes slipped off like silk unraveling. Her skin burned, her heart thundered, and her thoughts disappeared like smoke.
She didn’t remember how his name tasted on her lips.
She just remembered how he made her forget everything else.
They were tangled — skin, breath, need — until nothing else existed. Just the sound of their bodies in the dark. Just the stars outside the window and the ache blooming behind her ribs.
---
By the time she woke, the sun was already bleeding through the curtains.
And the side of the bed where he had been… was cold.
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The sun was already seeping through the velvet curtains, golden and too bright.
It touched her bare shoulder, warm and soft, and for a second — just a second — she forgot.
She blinked slowly, her lashes sticking together, her mouth dry.
The bed was too soft. The sheets too clean. The silence too unfamiliar.
And then it all rushed back.
The night.
The touch.
The kiss.
Him.
A blush crept up her cheeks before she could stop it, warm and uninvited. She turned her head toward the other side of the bed, expecting to see him lying there, maybe watching her sleep or freshly dressed, waiting with coffee and a smile.
But the bed was cold.
Empty.
Undisturbed.
She sat up slowly, the white sheets falling around her like broken snow.
That’s when she saw it — a small bloom of red where she’d lain.
She froze.
The proof.
Her first time.
Still there. Stark against white cotton like a cruel signature.
She looked toward the bathroom, heart fluttering. Maybe he was inside. Maybe he’d just stepped out. But there was no sound. No rushing water. No humming. Just silence.
And then she saw it.
An envelope.
Folded neatly on the desk behind the bed.
She reached for it with trembling hands, her chest tight with hope. Maybe it was a note. A name. A number. Something.
But it wasn’t.
It was cash.
Two thousand dollars.
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She stared at it for a full minute, the world tilting around her.
No note.
No explanation.
Just money.
Her stomach twisted. Her mouth went dry.
> Did he think I was… a prostitute?
Tears flooded her eyes before she could blink them away. Her throat closed, burning. She clutched the sheet to her chest, not from modesty — from shame.
From humiliation.
> I gave him everything.
I thought there was a connection.
I thought… maybe this meant something.
And he left money.
Like I was for sale.
Her chest heaved. She let out a shaky, broken laugh, the kind that hurt more than crying.
> “Two thousand pounds,” she whispered bitterly. “So that’s what I’m worth.”
She wiped angrily at her tears, furious at herself more than him.
> I followed a stranger.
Let him touch me.
Let him take something I can never get back.
For nothing. For money.
She wanted to scream. Rip the sheets. Tear the envelope in half. But all she could do was sit there, trembling.
> “At least he didn’t take it for free,” she muttered dryly, her voice hollow.
She hated how she’d agreed so easily, like a puppet with cut strings, letting him touch her without thinking twice. Now, everything felt hollow. Used and discarded, like she was worth no more than the two thousand dollars left on the nightstand.
Her body ached, but it was the shame that stung deeper—thick and heavy in her throat. Even walking out of the hotel didn’t humble her like she thought it would. She didn’t feel broken. She just felt numb, as if the worst part wasn’t what happened—but how little she fought it.
And then came the worst part — the part that haunted her long after.
She still remembered the way he kissed her. The way he looked at her.
She still remembered wanting it.
And now she didn’t even have his name.
Just pain.
And two thousand pounds she would never touch.
- Writer
