CHAPTER 5: WRONG ROOM

Vespera's POV 

The phone was still humming with dead static when I finally pushed the receiver back onto its hook. My hand was shaking so badly I missed the metal cradle twice.

‘Make sure you keep that altered financial flash drive hidden in your purse before I get there.’

Maren’s words echoed inside my head, loud and sharp like a slap across my face.

My chest felt hollow, like someone had reached inside and carved out my heart with a dull knife. Maren had known. She had known about the drive. She had known about the files. She had known about the whole sickening trap before I even had a chance to speak.

"No," I whispered to the empty, shadowy corner of the lobby. "No, she’s my sister. She loves me. She wouldn't... she couldn't."

I needed to stop thinking. I needed my brain to stop spinning before I went insane right there on the filthy carpet.

I turned away from the lobby desk and dragged my feet down a narrow, dark hallway toward a small neon sign flickering in red letters: The Underground Lounge.

The motel bar was small, low-ceilinged, and practically empty. A sticky wooden counter stretched along one side, lit only by amber bulbs hanging from long cords. An old television hummed softly in the corner, playing a late-night news broadcast, but I kept my eyes glued to the floor so I wouldn't see my own face plastered across the screen again.

I slumped onto a squeaky stool at the far end of the counter.

The middle-aged bartender, wearing a stained white apron, glanced up at my wet hair, my torn shoulder, and my bare, bruised arms. He didn't ask for my name. He didn't look at me with judgment or pity.

"What can I get you, miss?" he asked, his voice low and raspy.

"Whatever is strong," I said, my voice barely more than a scratchy whisper. "Cheap whiskey. Anything."

He nodded once, reached under the counter, and poured a dark amber liquid into a heavy glass. He slid it across the sticky wood toward me.

"Five bucks," he said.

I pulled out the remaining crumpled bills from my pocket,—coins and singles the front clerk had given me in change—and pushed them across the bar.

I picked up the glass with trembling fingers and downed the drink in one single gulp.

The alcohol burned down my throat like liquid fire, hitting my stomach with a sudden, violent heat. I gasped, slamming the empty glass back onto the wood, coughing softly as tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

"Another one," I squeezed out.

"Take it easy, kid," the bartender murmured, but he refilled the glass anyway. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Worse," I muttered, staring at the amber swirl in front of me. "I looked in the mirror."

I took a second long sip, letting the burning liquid coat my throat. My brain began to feel heavy, slow, and numb. But instead of drowning the pain, the alcohol seemed to ignite something else deep inside my stomach—something dark, hot, and dangerous.

I thought about Everett.

I remembered sitting up until two in the morning, studying boring financial manuals so I could talk intelligently with his business partners at his dinners. I remembered folding his designer shirts, ironing his silk ties, and waiting by the front door for hours just to hear his footsteps. I remembered bowing my head whenever he insulted my past, telling myself that he was just stressed, that he loved me in his own cold way.

"Fool," I whispered to myself, my teeth grattering against the glass. "You pathetic, blind fool."

I had sacrificed my pride, my self-respect, and my freedom for a man who looked at me like a piece of dirt on his expensive shoes. He had taken my dignity, dragged my name through the mud, and tossed me out into the freezing rain like garbage.

And Maren? The sister I had protected since we were ten years old? The girl I gave my own food to when our foster home ran out of bread?

She was part of it.

The sorrow in my chest didn't disappear, but it shifted. The cold, crushing despair turned into hot, bubbling rage. My knuckles turned white as I squeezed the heavy glass so hard I thought it might shatter in my palm.

"Hey," the bartender's voice broke through my thoughts. "You okay over there?"

I looked up at him, my eyes burning with a fierce, terrifying light.

"I'm not going to cry anymore," I said, my voice suddenly steady and sharp despite the alcohol humming through my veins. "I'm done crying."

"Good for you," he said cautiously, taking a step back.

"That's the spirit."

"He thinks he won," I murmured, leaning forward over the bar, talking more to myself than to him. "Everett Kane thinks he erased me. He thinks I'm going to crawl into a corner, hide my face, and die quietly."

"Sounds like a real jerk," the bartender offered softly.

"He's a monster," I hissed, slamming my palm down on the wood. "And he's going to regret the day he ever put his hands on me. I swear on my life... I will clear my name. I will tear down everything he built, piece by piece, until he has nothing left."

The bartender looked at me for a long moment, then slowly picked up his bottle and poured another splash into my glass without charging me. "Here. On the house. Sounds like you're going to need it."

"Thank you," I said softly.

I drank the third glass slowly, feeling the world blur around the edges. My head felt light, my legs heavy as lead. The fire in my heart was roaring now, burning away every trace of the weak, fearful girl who had walked into that gala three hours ago.

I wasn't Everett's victim anymore. I was going to be his worst nightmare.

I pushed myself off the stool. My knees buckled slightly, but I grabbed the edge of the bar to steady myself.

"Whoa, easy there, miss," the bartender warned, reaching out a hand. "Are you sure you can make it to your room?"

"I'm fine," I slurred slightly, giving him a tight, defiant nod. "Room 104. Just... need to sleep."

I stumbled out of the dim lounge and back into the narrow stairwell. The air outside the bar was cool, but my skin was burning hot from the whiskey.

My vision began to swim. The yellow wallpaper lined with faded flower patterns seemed to shift and wave like water. Every step up the wooden stairs felt like climbing a mountain.

One step. Two steps. Three.

"Room 104..." I muttered under my breath, holding onto the sticky wooden handrail as my head throbbed painfully. "Just get inside... lock the door... wait for morning..."

I reached the second-floor hallway. It was dark, illuminated only by a single buzzing bulb at the far end. My feet dragged across the carpet as I searched for the gold numbers on the doors.

101... 102... 103...

I stopped in front of the next door. My eyes were blurry, double images dancing before my eyes. The brass numbers on the dark wood looked fuzzy and warped.

"Here," I breathed, letting out a heavy, intoxicated sigh.

I dug my shivering hand into my pocket, pulled out the heavy metal key, and jammed it into the lock.

The brass lock gave a loud, heavy CLICK. 

I pushed the door open and stumbled inside the pitch-black room, my foot catching on the doorframe as I staggered forward into the quiet shadows.

"Maren?" I gasped, my voice thick with booze and exhaustion. "Is that you?"

A deep, quiet voice rose from the darkness of the room—a voice that was definitely not my sister's.

"You're in the wrong room, Vespera."

Before I could scream, a long, shadow-draped arm reached out from the dark, grabbed my wrist in a firm grip, and pulled me inside as the heavy door slammed shut behind me.