REVENGEOUS

The evening began at The Velvet Room, a bar I had been to a hundred times before. Tucked away in the city’s upscale district, it is the kind of place where the air smells like aged leather and money, where the drinks are poured with precision and cost more than most people’s rent. The walls, lined with dark oak panels, absorbed the soft glow of amber sconces, casting a warm haze over the room. I was there with James, Marcus, and Leo, my oldest friends, relics from my university days when I was still the awkward heir trying to find his footing. Back then, I’d been a lanky kid with too much hair and too little confidence, drowning in the shadow of the Voss family name. They had been my tether, pulling me out of my shell with their reckless energy, their late-night escapades dragging me from the library to dive bars I’d never have ventured into alone. Over the years, that recklessness had mellowed into something I could handle, or so I thought. “Adrian, you look like you are about to close a hostile takeover,” James said, sprawled in his chair with that lazy grin I knew too well. His tie hung loose around his neck, a casualty of the night’s progression, his dark hair falling into his eyes, and his third whiskey sat half-empty on the table, condensation pooling on the polished wood. “Lighten up, man. It is Friday.” “I am fine,” I replied, my tone clipped but not sharp. I swirled the bourbon in my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the bar’s dim light. It shimmered like molten gold, a small comfort after a week of endless meetings, boardroom battles, and the relentless pressure of running the Grand Meridian Hotel. The Velvet Room’s jazz playlist drifted through the air, soft trumpet notes weaving through the murmur of conversation, a low hum that softened the edges of my frayed nerves. For once, I felt the tension in my shoulders ease. I was not lying. I was unwinding, or at least trying to, shedding the weight of a legacy that clung to me like damp wool. Marcus snorted, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the faded tattoo of a compass he’d gotten during a drunken trip to Amsterdam. “Fine? You are sitting there like you are about to fire the bartender. Here, have another.” He slid a fresh glass toward me, the ice clinking against the sides, a sharp sound that cut through the music. “Consider it medicinal.” I arched an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. “You are not a doctor, Marcus.” “Details,” he said with a dismissive wave, his grin widening to show the crooked incisor he’d never bothered to fix. Leo chuckled beside him, his glasses slipping down his nose as he nursed his gin and tonic, the lime wedge bobbing lazily in the glass. They were in high spirits, buoyed by the weekend ahead, their laughter a lifeline I hadn’t realized I’d needed until now. One more drink would not hurt. I took a sip, then another, savoring the familiar burn as it slid down my throat. It tasted sharper than usual, almost metallic, a bite that lingered on my tongue, but I dismissed it. The Velvet Room prided itself on experimental mixes; it was probably just some new twist the mixologist had dreamed up, a flourish to justify the exorbitant price tag. We traded stories as the night wore on, the hours slipping away like sand through my fingers. James recounted a disastrous date he’d had the week before, complete with exaggerated gestures that sent Leo into fits of laughter, his glasses fogging up as he wiped tears from his eyes. “She threw her wine at me, mate, right in the middle of the restaurant,” James said, miming the splash with a flourish of his hand. Marcus teased me about a deal I’d closed earlier that month, a risky acquisition of a rival hotel chain that had paid off handsomely after months of sleepless nights and calculated gambles. “You’re a machine, Adrian,” he said, shaking his head, his voice tinged with something like awe. “How do you even sleep at night?” “Expensive whiskey helps,” I quipped, raising my glass. They laughed, a sound that echoed off the walls, and for a while, I forgot about the weight of the Grand Meridian, forgot about the investors breathing down my neck with their incessant demands, the staff I’d had to reprimand that morning for a botched VIP booking, the emails piling up in my inbox like digital vultures. It was just us, the way it used to be, four friends in a bubble of noise and light, untouchable by the world outside. But then I felt it. A shift, subtle at first, like a ripple under the surface of a still pond. A warmth bloomed in my chest, spreading outward, tingling in my fingertips like static electricity. I shifted in my seat, frowning as I set my glass down, the clink louder than it should have been. The room seemed to tilt, not dramatically, but enough to notice, a faint sway that made my stomach lurch. My heart picked up, a steady thudding I couldn’t ignore, pulsing in time with the bassline of the jazz. I flexed my hands, trying to shake it off, the sensation of my own skin suddenly foreign. “You okay, mate?” Leo asked, peering at me over the rim of his drink, his brow furrowing behind his glasses. His voice sounded distant, muffled by the sudden rush in my ears, a roar like wind through a tunnel. “Yeah,” I said, though I wasn’t sure. “Just need a minute.” I stood, steadying myself against the table, my palm pressing into the cool wood. My legs held, but my head was swimming, not drunk exactly, but off-balance, something sharper, more insistent than alcohol. I excused myself and made for the bathroom, weaving through the crowd with a focus I didn’t feel, brushing past men in tailored suits and women in glittering dresses, their laughter a dull buzz against my skull. The cool tile under my feet grounded me as I reached the sink, splashing water on my face, the shock of it biting against my flushed skin. My reflection stared back: sharp jawline, dark eyes narrowed with strain, the tailored suit still crisp despite the hour. I looked normal, the same Adrian Voss who’d walked into boardrooms and silenced them with a glance. So why did I feel like I was fraying at the edges, threads unraveling one by one? Back at the table, the guys were grinning like they’d just pulled off a heist, their eyes glinting with mischief. James clapped me on the shoulder as I sat down, harder than necessary, his hand lingering a beat too long. “Feeling good yet?” I narrowed my eyes, suspicion curling in my gut. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Marcus leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his breath carrying the faint tang of gin. “We spiked your drink, man. Nothing crazy, just a little something to loosen you up.” The words hit me like a punch, knocking the air from my lungs. I froze, my glass halfway to my lips, the bourbon sloshing against the sides. “You what?” Leo burst out laughing, nearly spilling his drink, his glasses slipping further down his nose. “Oh, come on, don’t look so horrified. It’s just a bit of fun. You’ve been wound tighter than a drum lately, work, work, work. We thought you could use a break.” My stomach twisted, a sick lurch that had nothing to do with the drug. “What did you put in it?” My voice was steady, but inside, I was spiraling, a storm of anger and disbelief clawing at my chest. They’d pulled pranks before, swapping my car keys for a toy set, once booking a clown to crash a client meeting as a “stress test,” but this was different. This was a violation, my body, my mind, invaded without consent. “Just a little aphrodisiac,” James said, smirking like it was nothing, his casual shrug infuriatingly dismissive. “Harmless. You’ll thank us later.” I wanted to lunge across the table and wipe that smirk off his face, to feel the satisfying crunch of bone under my fist. My fists clenched under the table, nails digging into my palms until I felt the sting, but before I could act, that warmth flared again, stronger now, racing through my veins like liquid fire. My skin prickled, hypersensitive to the brush of my shirt against my chest, the hum of the music vibrating through the air, the weight of their stares boring into me. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to breathe, each inhale sharp and ragged. “This isn’t funny,” I managed, my voice low and tight, a growl barely contained. “Relax,” Marcus said, still grinning, oblivious to the rage simmering beneath my skin. “It’ll wear off in a few hours. Unless you want to make the most of it. We could call someone for you; there’s this girl we know, does discreet work.” “No,” I snapped, cutting him off, my tone slicing through the air like a blade. The idea made my skin crawl, a wave of revulsion crashing over me. I wasn’t that man. I didn’t pay for company; I didn’t need to. I’d had relationships, brief, discreet, always on my terms, women who understood my world, who didn’t expect more than I could give, their names a quiet roster in my memory: Elena, Claire, Sophia. The thought of them arranging something so tawdry, so degrading, turned my stomach, bile rising in my throat. But my body wasn’t listening. That heat was building, relentless, clawing at my resolve, a beast I couldn’t cage. I hated it, hated them for doing this to me, hated myself for the flicker of temptation I couldn’t entirely suppress. “Adrian, come on,” Leo said, softer now, his laughter fading as he registered the storm in my eyes. “We’re just messing around. You don’t have to do anything.” But I could feel the hunger, the need, coiling tighter with every second, a serpent winding around my ribs. It wasn’t me. It was the drug, twisting my thoughts, amplifying impulses I’d spent years burying under layers of discipline and control. I stood again, unsteady, my chair scraping against the floor with a harsh screech. “I’m leaving,” I said, my voice hoarse, gravel scraping my throat. “Don’t follow me.” They called after me, James shouting something half-apologetic, Marcus laughing it off like it was still a game, but I didn’t stop. I needed out, needed air, needed to escape the suffocating press of their voices and the betrayal they didn’t even recognize. My driver, Paul, was waiting outside in the black sedan, his gray hair catching the streetlight as he straightened at my approach. I barked the order as I slid into the back seat, the leather cool against my overheated skin. “Grand Meridian. Now.” “Not the penthouse, sir?” he asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror, his brow creasing slightly at my disheveled state. “No. The hotel’s closer.” I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, trying to steady myself, the city lights blurring into streaks of neon and gold. The Grand Meridian was mine, my sanctuary, my fortress, a monument to the Voss legacy I’d fought to uphold. I could lock myself in a suite, ride this out alone, regain the control slipping through my fingers. That was the plan. The drive was agony. Every red light stretched into eternity, every jolt of the car sending sparks through my oversensitive nerves, a jolt that made me flinch. My hands shook as I gripped the armrest, my breath shallow, each exhaling a battle against the rising tide within me. I’m Adrian Voss, I told myself, a mantra pounded into my skull. I don’t lose control. I don’t let anyone dictate what I do. But my body was screaming otherwise, a traitor to my will, every nerve alight with a fire I couldn’t douse. By the time we pulled up to the hotel’s private entrance, I was trembling, sweat beading at my temples, my shirt clinging to my back. I couldn’t go in as myself. The staff knew me too well: every bellhop with his eager nod, every concierge with her practiced smile, every maid who’d dusted my office. They’d see me like this, disheveled, wild-eyed, and the whispers would start, rumors snaking through the ranks until they reached the press. A scandal tied to the Grand Meridian was the last thing I needed, my family’s name, my name, dragged through the mud because of one stupid night, one betrayal I hadn’t seen coming. So I dug through my wallet, fingers fumbling, until I found it: an old ID I kept for emergencies. “Thomas Reed,” it read, a fake created years ago when I’d traveled incognito to scout competitors’ properties, a relic of a younger, more paranoid self. It still worked. I slipped off my coat, mussed my hair with a shaky hand, and stepped out of the car, keeping my head down, the night air biting against my flushed skin. “Stay close,” I muttered to Paul, my voice rough. “I might need you later.” “Yes, sir,” he said, unfazed, his tone steady as always. He’d seen me in worse states, jet-lagged after transatlantic flights, stressed after boardroom showdowns, but never like this, never this unmoored. I didn’t care. I just needed to get inside. The night manager at the side desk barely glanced at me as I checked in, his fingers tapping lazily at the keyboard. “Room 412,” he said, sliding a keycard across the counter, his voice flat, professional, oblivious to the storm raging inside me. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Reed.” I muttered a thanks and headed for the elevator, my pulse pounding in my ears, a relentless drumbeat. The lobby glittered around me, marble floors polished to a mirror sheen, crystal chandeliers casting prisms of light, the faint scent of jasmine from the floral arrangements wafting through the air, but it all blurred into noise, a sensory assault I couldn’t escape. I jabbed the elevator button, willing it to hurry, my reflection in the polished steel a distorted shadow of myself. The ride up was a blur. I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes as the floors ticked by, each ding a hammer against my skull: second, third, fourth. The doors slid open, and I stepped into the hallway, the carpet muffling my footsteps, a soft reprieve from the chaos inside me. Room 412 was at the end, a standard suite, nothing like the penthouse I usually took with its sprawling views and custom furnishings, but it would do. I swiped the keycard, slipped inside, and locked the door behind me, the click a small victory against the world outside. The room was quiet, sterile: a queen bed with crisp white linens, a desk with a leather-bound notepad, a minibar I wouldn’t touch, not now, not when I couldn’t trust myself. I paced, my shoes sinking into the carpet, my breath ragged, each step a futile attempt to outrun the heat coursing through me. I could handle this. I’d handled worse: hostile takeovers that left me sleepless for days, family feuds over inheritance that ended in shouting matches, the weight of a legacy that threatened to crush me some days, a mantle I’d never asked for but couldn’t shed. This was just a chemical trick, a fleeting madness, a storm I could weather. I splashed water on my face in the bathroom, the cold a fleeting relief, gripped the sink until my knuckles whitened, stared at myself in the mirror. “Get it together,” I growled, my voice echoing off the tiles, but my reflection didn’t listen, eyes dark and haunted, pupils dilated with something I didn’t recognize. My phone buzzed, shattering the silence, a vibration that jolted me like a shock. I fished it out of my pocket, dreading what I’d see: a text from James, the bastard who’d started this. *“She’s on her way. Purple dress. You’re welcome.”* Fury surged through me, hot and bright, a wildfire I couldn’t contain. They’d done it anyway, sent someone despite my refusal, despite my rage. I typed a reply, fingers shaking with barely suppressed violence, *“Call it off. Now,”* but another message popped up before I could hit send, a taunting jab that twisted the knife deeper. *“Too late. Have fun, mate.”* I threw the phone onto the bed, a string of curses spilling from my lips, raw and guttural, words I hadn’t used since my university days. I didn’t want this, didn’t want her, didn’t want any part of their twisted game, but that damned drug was still in my system, and the thought of a woman in a purple dress, lilac they’d called it, stirred something dark and primal in me, a hunger I couldn’t silence. I hated myself for it, hated how my hands trembled, how my breath hitched at the image my mind conjured: soft curves, dark hair, eyes that might see through me. I was better than this, had to be, had spent years building a life of control, of dignity, only to have it unravel in a single night. Minutes dragged by: five, ten, fifteen, each one an eternity as I paced the room, my shadow stretching across the walls. I told myself she wouldn’t come, maybe they were bluffing, maybe she’d get lost or change her mind or never show up at all. I could wait it out, let the drug fade, reclaim my sanity, lock this night away in a vault of memory never to be opened. But then I heard it: footsteps in the hall, soft, deliberate, a faint click of heels against the hardwood strip between the carpeted sections, a sound that pierced the silence like a gunshot. I froze, my heart slamming against my ribs, a frantic rhythm I couldn’t slow. I shouldn’t have looked, should’ve stayed put, locked the door tighter, turned off the lights, but that hunger, the one I couldn’t silence, pulled me to the door like a puppet on strings, my hand trembling as I cracked it open, just enough to see. There she was, a woman in a lilac dress, the fabric shimmering faintly under the hallway lights as she walked, a soft glow that made her stand out against the muted tones of the corridor. She was young, mid-twenties maybe, with dark hair cascading over her shoulders in loose waves, catching the light in a cascade of shadows. She didn’t look like what I’d expected, not cheap, not garish, not the caricature I’d braced myself for. She looked lost almost, her head turning slightly as she glanced at room numbers, her brow furrowed in concentration. My mouth went dry, my throat tightening as I watched her, every step bringing her closer. My hands moved before my brain could stop them, reaching out as she passed my door, instinct overriding reason. I grabbed her immediately, wrapping my tattooed arm around her waist and pulling her inside, the motion swift and desperate, covering her mouth with my other hand to stifle the scream I knew would come. I was too overwhelmed to think straight, too consumed by the heat coursing through me, a wildfire I couldn’t extinguish. I didn’t want a s*x worker, didn’t want this night to spiral into something I couldn’t control, didn’t even want intimacy or connection in the way I’d once known it. All I wanted was release, to lose myself in the chaos of the moment, to drown out the drug’s relentless pull for as long as it would let me. I kicked the door shut behind us, the lock clicking into place, sealing us in this strange, charged limbo. Was it the pills, or was her scent really that intoxicating, a mix of jasmine and something sharper, something that cut through the fog in my head? Her shivering in my arms only fueled the fire, her body trembling against mine, a reaction that set my nerves alight, making the heat burn hotter, if that was even possible. I pressed closer, my breath ragged against her neck, and when I brushed my tongue against her ear, a fleeting desperate taste, I realized her skin was like nothing I’d ever known, a flavor I’d craved my entire life without knowing it, a hunger I’d buried under years of restraint now roaring to the surface.