Chapter 4. Nothing left.
814 Words
The hotel room's silence presses against my skin as I kick off my heels, still buzzing from bourbon and dangerous promises. Dominic's words echo in my head, but it's memories of another Rodriguez that flood my mind as I sink onto the bed.
Five years ago. Club Vertex in downtown Oakbrook Heights. The night I met Martins.
I close my eyes, and suddenly I'm there again – twenty-two, wearing that little black dress Victoria convinced me to buy, nursing a cosmopolitan at the bar. The bass thrummed through my bones, lights painting the crowd in electric blues and purples. That's when I saw him.
Golden boy in a charcoal suit, moving through the crowd like he owned it. Our eyes met across the dance floor, and the world tilted on its axis. His smile hit me like lightning – all charm and promise and heat.
"This seat taken?" His voice was honey and sin, cologne wrapping around me as he leaned close.
I remember how my heart raced, how the air charged between us. "Depends who's asking."
"Martins Rodriguez." He kissed my hand like some old-world gentleman. "And you are?"
"Shirley Anderson." I tried to play it cool, but my skin tingled where his lips touched. "Do you always kiss strangers' hands?"
His laugh was everything. "Only the beautiful ones."
We danced. God, how we danced. His hands on my hips, my arms around his neck, bodies pressed close enough to share heartbeats. The world narrowed to just us – his breath on my neck, my fingers in his hair.
"Come home with me," he whispered against my ear.
I did.
His penthouse apartment took my breath away – floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city lights. But I barely saw it. We were too busy tearing at each other's clothes, stumbling toward his bedroom between desperate kisses.
I'd never wanted anyone like that before. Never felt so wanted in return.
My hotel room spins as I open my eyes, the memory so vivid it hurts. I can still feel his hands on my skin that first night, still hear the way he gasped my name. We made love until sunrise, then spent the whole next day in bed, ordering room service and learning each other's bodies.
"You're dangerous," I told him between kisses.
"Only to your heart," he promised.
Liar. Such a beautiful liar.
Two years of whirlwind romance. Surprise trips to Paris, midnight picnics under the stars, love notes hidden in my purse. He proposed at sunset on the Eiffel Tower, down on one knee with tears in his eyes.
"You're my miracle," he said as he slipped the ring on my finger. "My forever."
More lies.
My hands shake as I unzip my dress, letting it pool at my feet. The mirror shows me what he's thrown away – curves he used to worship, skin he used to kiss. Fourteen months of betrayal while I tried to give him a child. While I cried myself to sleep in his arms.
The engagement ring catches the light, mocking me. I twist it off and hurl it across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying ping.
Memories assault me – our wedding night, how gentle he was. Every anniversary, every surprise romantic gesture. The way he held me through each miscarriage, promising we'd keep trying. Was he already sleeping with Victoria then? Planning his escape into her arms?
I slide between the cool sheets, my body aching with phantom touches. The bed feels too big, too empty. Like our marriage bed after the last miscarriage, when he started working late and Victoria started canceling our lunch dates.
My phone lights up – another message from him: "Remember our first night? That's the love we can get back to. Just come home."
A sob catches in my throat. Home. Our beautiful house with its perfect nursery, painted yellow because we wanted to be surprised. Now Victoria will raise her baby there, sleeping in my bed, living my life.
I type back with trembling fingers: "I remember everything. Every touch. Every lie. Sleep well, darling. While you can."
Then I turn off my phone and curl around my pillow, letting the tears come. Not tears of grief this time – tears of rage. Of promise.
Tomorrow, I start dismantling everything he loves. But tonight, I let myself remember. One last time.
Let him think I'm weeping over our lost love. Let him believe I'm weak with memories of his touch. He has no idea what's coming.
Dominic was right – people like Martins always leave breadcrumbs. And I'm going to follow them straight to his destruction.
I fall asleep with the taste of bourbon and vengeance on my tongue, dreaming of the day Martins Rodriguez realizes exactly what he's awakened in me.
Sometimes the most dangerous weapon is a woman with nothing left to lose.
- Writer
