Chapter Two

Aria Pov 

“You slapped me,” I said, staring at Ethan.  

“After how many years we have been together, you slap me.”

My voice came out low and steady, but my cheek still burned where his hand had landed. The taste of blood lingered at the corner of my mouth. Ethan stood there naked, chest rising and falling too fast, Derek already pulling his pants back on like nothing had happened. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them looked guilty. The silence between us felt heavier than the slap itself.

I turned away before either of them could find words.

The ring slid off my finger easily. It had never fit quite right, always a little loose, as if it had known it wouldn’t stay. I dropped it on the floor along with the thin chains and the necklace he had given me months ago. The soft clink of metal against wood was the only sound I left behind as I walked out of the apartment and shut the door. I didn’t slam it. I didn’t have the energy for that kind of noise. My hands were shaking, and the side of my face throbbed in time with my pulse.

Outside, the night air felt colder than it had earlier. I walked without direction at first, just putting distance between myself and the apartment that still held the image of Ethan on that bed. Every few steps I touched my cheek, half-expecting the skin to be split open. It wasn’t, but the heat under my palm told me a bruise was already forming. People passed me on the sidewalk. None of them looked twice. I was just another girl walking alone with her head down.

I didn’t go home.

My feet carried me to the nearest bar instead. The place was half-empty, dim lights, low music, the kind of spot where no one looked too closely. I sat at the counter and ordered without thinking. I had been about to head back to the apartment I shared with Victoria, but the thought stopped me cold every time it surfaced. I couldn’t walk in looking like this—bruised, shaking, eyes red. What would my mother say? She would ask questions I wasn’t ready to answer. She would worry. She would make everything about the new life she thought we were starting tomorrow, about the stepfather I still hadn’t met, about the company and the future she kept painting in bright colors. I couldn’t give her this version of me tonight.

My phone lit up on the counter.

Victoria’s name flashed across the screen. I stared at it, thumb hovering. I tried not to answer. My hand moved anyway and pressed the green button before I could stop it.

“Aria, don’t forget to come home tomorrow,” she said, voice bright and full of excitement. “Your stepdad is coming home, and you’re starting work at the company. I want everything to go smoothly. He’s been looking forward to meeting you properly.”

I forced a smile into my voice. I laughed in the right places, the sound thin and false in my own ears. I told her of course I would be there. I told her I was fine. I told her I couldn’t wait. She talked about the clothes she thought I should wear, about how impressive the building was, about how lucky we both were. I made the appropriate sounds of agreement. The words tasted like ash, but she believed them. When the call ended I set the phone face-down and ordered the most expensive bourbon they had.

The glass arrived heavy and cold. I drank it slowly while I talked to the bartender. I didn’t give him names. I just told him the shape of it—how someone you trusted could look you in the eye after putting their hands on you and feel nothing. How the future you thought you were building could disappear in a single slap. How you could stand there holding the pieces of a life that no longer made sense and still have to smile on the phone for your mother. He listened without interrupting, wiping the same section of the counter over and over. When I finished the glass I pushed a fold of cash across the wood and told him to keep the change. He nodded once. I didn’t wait for a reply.

I left the bar and walked until I found a hotel that still had vacancies. The lobby was quiet, all polished floors and soft lighting. A man stood a few steps away from the front desk, phone pressed to his ear, speaking in a low, controlled voice. I couldn’t hear the words, only the steady cadence of someone used to giving orders. The secretary set two keys on the counter—one marked 9, one marked 6. The man ended his call, took the key for 6 without looking at me, and walked toward the elevators. I took the remaining key, the one for 9, and followed the signs upstairs.

The hallway smelled faintly of clean linen and something expensive. My key card clicked against the lock. The door opened onto a room that was nothing like what I had asked for. I had told the secretary I only needed a cheap place to sleep for the night. Instead I stepped into a wide, quiet VIP suite—soft lighting, heavy curtains drawn against the city, a bed large enough for three people, everything polished and expensive. Thick carpet swallowed the sound of my steps. A small bottle of something dark sat on the minibar, untouched. I didn’t argue. I didn’t go back downstairs. I was too tired to care what they had given me.

I dropped my bag by the door and sat on the edge of the mattress. The bedspread was cool under my palms. From the bathroom came the soft, steady drip of water, slow and rhythmic, like a clock counting down. I didn’t get up to check. My body felt heavy, my face still ached, and the bourbon had started to pull everything under. I lay back against the pillows, eyes already closing, and let the exhaustion take me. The ceiling above me was white and distant. For a moment I thought about Victoria waiting at home, about the stepfather who would be there tomorrow, about the ring I had left on Ethan’s floor. Then even those thoughts blurred.

I saw the man with a white towel tied around his waist.  

“Who is this and what are you doing here?” I said.