Chapter 2: Morning after
1227 Words
Bella's lids opened to dawn light filtering through filmy curtains. The house was quiet, in soft pastels and luxury she did not possess. Her shoulders were unbared by silk, her skin still tingling from a night that felt more dream than memory. She blinked once, slowly, as uncertainty entered her eyes to greet the high ceiling of a chandelier crafted of crystal. The events of last night came crashing down on her like a tidal wave.
Her breath was trapped.
Anthony Malone.
The man that every business magazine had deemed untouchable. The enigma with a jawline formed by secrets and success. The man who, in sheer violation of reason and rule, had danced with her, kissed her, and promised her she was something more than a girl with calluses on her fingers and aspirations too big for her wallet.
Bella's gaze went to the other side of the bed cold, empty.
Of course he was gone. Guys like Anthony didn't hang around. Not with girls like her.
She sat up, her body aching in sumptuously incriminating ways. The silk sheet stuck to the sweat-dampened skin of her back as she wrapped her arms around her knees. Her black hair fell in loose waves down her back, and she looked out at the city horizon through the glass wall that filled the far end of the room. The Manhattan dawn shone like a promise she couldn't afford to keep believing in.
Last night had been magic.
And magic wasn't something she did.
She crawled out of the bed and padded quietly to the lavish ensuite bathroom. Each inch sparkled. Gold hardware. Marble tops. Monogrammed towels that probably cost more than her whole month's rent. Bella batted at her reflection in the mirror. She did not wish to see the uncertainty creeping into her eyes.
A note had been left crumpled on the counter alongside a tiny vial of perfume that was unfamiliar to her.
You stood before me last night like a dream.
No signature. But she hadn't needed one. She would know Anthony's writing anywhere. It was confident, quite sharp, elegant like him.
Her hand trembled slightly as she grasped it, pushed it against her chest, and closed her eyes. She didn't want it to stop. Freeze this moment. Put it in a bottle. Imagine she wasn't on the brink of going back to the world she was supposed to be in the world where individuals like her served individuals like him.
She saw her dress from last night carefully draped over the back of a chair, her shoes beside it. The wall clock told her it was 6:20 a.m. She had just enough time to slip out unnoticed before the housekeeper arrived.
Bella moved as quickly as possible, not desiring a trail left behind. Questions. Or worse, pity. Because she knew exactly what this had been.
A one-time fairytale.
A lapse in judgment.
A beautiful mistake.
The cool morning air slapped her the instant she left the penthouse. Her heels clicked softly on the marble floor of the building lobby. The doorman looked at her in surprise but remained silent. She appreciated that.
By the time she was standing on the street, the magic was gone. The roar of cars, the honking horns, the distant shouting of a street vendor it all pained horribly much. New York City did not need romance. And neither did Bella Reyes.
She rode home on the subway, clenching her bag to her as she studied her reflection in the black glass. Her hair was disordered, her makeup smudged. She was the face of a woman who had dreamed something and wakened.
While the subway roared beneath the city, Bella settled back into her seat and let her thoughts unwind.
What had last night been about?
To her, it had been destiny.
To him? A distraction. An ephemeral indulgence. Possibly not even that.
"Don't be stupid," she said to herself, embracing herself. "You barely know him."
And yet, in the very center of her, something had shifted. Her walls the ones she had so carefully built after all those years of pain had started to c***k. She was exposed, open. Scared.
For she wanted more.
And that was the problem.
Back at her apartment an old walk-up building in Brooklyn with peeling paint and radiators that hissed at odd moments Bella shrugged out of her dress and tossed it across the bed. The mattress groaned in protest. Her studio was cramped, only enough space for her sewing machine, sketchbooks, and daydreams.
She walked over to the window in the room and peered down at the street. A dog yelped in the distance. A man cursed his coffee cup. Life went on. Unremarkable and unyielding.
But Bella no longer felt unremarkable.
She sat at her sewing table and stroked the frayed cover of a sketchbook, the pages filled with late-night doodles after waitressing shifts or working as a cashier. Dresses that would be featured in magazines. Gowns for celebrities.
She remembered the ball again.
Anthony's hands on her waist, his gaze boring into hers like he could see every secret she'd ever kept.
Her hand trembled as she picked up a pencil.
She drew by habit. Strokes swooshed over the paper. A corset. Off-shoulder style. Refining beading. A train that exhaled excess.
It was the gown she had wanted to wear last night.
The hours passed. Roxy rang, but Bella left it on voicemail. She wasn't ready to talk yet. Not until she knew what this was. Not until she could breathe without remembering the feel of Anthony's mouth on hers.
Her stomach growled around midday, and she cooked herself toast and eggs. The familiar routine steadied her. By the time she'd finished eating, her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She stared at the screen for a solid thirty seconds before answering.
"Hello?"
"Bella."
His voice. Low and smooth like fine whiskey. She felt her knees turn weak.
"Yes," she whispered.
"It's Anthony."
"I know."
There was a silence. Both of them didn't quite know what to say next.
"I wanted to see you," he said after a while. "But you were gone."
"I had to go," she said, attempting to remain calm.
"I should have woken up sooner. I did not expect you to disappear."
"I did not disappear. I retreated. There's a difference."
A silence.
"Can we talk?" he asked. "In person."
Bella hesitated. Her instincts screamed for her to run and hide from whatever this was becoming.
But her heart said otherwise.
"Yes," she whispered. "Where?"
"My office. Tomorrow."
The phone died, and Bella stared at the screen in stunned silence. She hadn't anticipated that he would call. Hadn't anticipated that he would care.
But he did.
Or perhaps he needed to clear things up.
Whatever, she would be running into him again.
And that terrified her.
She cleaned out her apartment obsessively for the rest of the day. Packed away her fabrics. Replicated her sketches. Anything to prevent thinking.
That night, she could not sleep. She lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, replaying every moment from the ball, every look, every kiss. Wondering what might occur tomorrow.
As the morning dawned again, her resolve was made.
She would visit his office. She would face him.
And she would not fall down.
Whatever.
- Writer
