CHAPTER 7: THE MORNING AFTER 

Vespera POV 

Morning sunlight leaked through the cracks of the dark curtains, cutting across my face with a bright, stinging warmth.

I groaned softly, my eyelids heavy as lead as I pulled myself out of the deep fog of sleep. A dull, pounding ache throbbed right behind my forehead—the brutal reminder of three shots of cheap whiskey on an empty stomach.

I stretched my arm across the mattress, expecting to feel the rough, damp wool blanket of room 104.

Instead, my fingers brushed against smooth, thick, high-thread-count cotton sheets.

My eyes flew open.

I sat up straight in bed, the heavy white duvet sliding down to my waist. Cold air hit my shoulders, and a sharp gasp caught in my throat. My emerald gala dress—the ruined, rain-soaked gown that Everett had torn hours ago—was folded neatly over the back of a wooden armchair near the corner of the room.

I looked down at myself. I was wearing an oversized, slate-gray button-down shirt. It smelled faintly of clean cedar, rain, and expensive cologne.

*The stranger.*

Memory flooded back in a chaotic wave, heating my cheeks until they burned red. Room 204. The broad-shouldered man with wet hair and a towel wrapped around his waist. The faint scar along his sharp jawline. His silver-gray eyes staring into mine with that terrifying, intense focus. His warm, strong hands catching me when my legs gave out... and his low voice whispering right against my face before the darkness completely swallowed me.

My heart began to hammer wildly against my ribs. I looked frantically around the room.

"Hello?" I rasped out, my throat dry and scratchy. "Is anyone here?"

Silence answered me.

The plush king-sized bed was empty beside me. The bathroom door stood wide open, cold and unoccupied. The heavy door leading to the hallway was locked from the inside.

He was gone.

I pulled the oversized shirt tightly around my chest, swinging my legs over the side of the high mattress. My feet touched the soft carpet, and I winced as the sharp scratch on my ankle reminded me of my broken heel from the night before. But as I looked down, I realized someone had cleaned the dried mud and blood off my skin. A clean, soft bandage was carefully wrapped around my heel.

A strange, dizzying warmth bloomed deep inside my chest, instantly conflicting with the embarrassment knotting my stomach.

Who was he? Why did he clean my wound? Why did he put me in his shirt instead of tossing me out into the hallway like garbage?

My eyes swept across the nightstand next to the bed.

Standing on the dark wood was a tall, clear glass of cold water and two pain-relief tablets sitting neatly beside it. Tucked right under the base of the glass was a small piece of heavy, cream-colored cardstock.

I reached out with a trembling hand, picking up the glass and taking a long, desperate gulp of water. The cold liquid soothed my burning throat, but my eyes remained glued to the thick paper.

Setting the glass down, I pulled the note out.

The handwriting was bold, sharp, and elegant, written with black fountain ink that bled slightly into the heavy cardstock.

I held my breath as I read the few words inscribed across the center:

~Drink the water and take the pills. The dress over the chair is clean, though beyond repair. Your wallet and keys are in the top drawer.~

I swallowed down the lump in my throat, my pulse fluttering nervously against my skin. My shyness flared up again, making my cheeks burn as I imagined him quietly taking care of me while I was passed out from exhaustion and alcohol. I had acted like a complete mess in front of a total stranger—a man who looked like he belonged in a high-rise executive suite rather than a rundown Midtown motel.

Then, my eyes drifted down to the bottom of the cardstock.

There was one last line written right above the signature line:

~Until we meet again, Vespera.~

I froze.

“ This is so embarrassing,” I facepalmed, my cheeks burning up.

The paper trembled in my hand as the quiet warmth in my chest vanished, replaced instantly by a wave of cold, prickling suspense that sent a shiver straight down my spine.

My mind raced through every second of the previous night. The confusion. The alcohol. The shock of walking into the wrong room. The tears. The panic when he held me.

I had been so overwhelmed, so humiliated by Everett's public execution on the gala stage, that I had barely been able to form proper sentences. I remembered begging him to let me go. I remembered asking him who he was.

But I had never told him who I was.

Not once had the words *Vespera Bennett* left my lips in front of him.

Yet he had written my name down in bold, unwavering ink.

He hadn't just stumbled into me by accident. He hadn't just happened to be in room 204. He knew exactly who I was before I ever pushed his door open.

A sharp knock suddenly echoed through the heavy door, making me jump out of my skin.