CHAPTER EIGHT -The Memory of Her

(RYAN’s POV)

I couldn’t sleep.

I lay in bed with Sophie curled against my side, her cheek resting against my shoulder, her breath slow and steady. She was peaceful — blissfully unaware.

But all I could see was Claire.

Not Claire the mother.

Not Claire the visitor.

Not Claire the potential in-law.

But Claire — the woman from that night.

The woman whose perfume still lingered in my memory.

The woman whose breathless moans still echoed in my head.

The woman whose body trembled beneath mine.

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force the thoughts away.

Because there was something wrong about thinking of her like that now.

Something filthy.

Something immoral.

Something… forbidden.

But the brain doesn’t follow morality.

It follows memory.

And my memory was vivid.

Flashback — some weeks ago

The bar lights were low — crimson and amber, with a haze of cigarette smoke drifting lazily above the crowd. I had gone there to escape a stupid argument with my mother — one of her usual lectures about duty and legacy and shame.

I just wanted to get drunk.

Not insane drunk — just numb drunk.

Enough that the world would soften.

Enough that expectations would blur.

I noticed her the moment she entered.

She walked in like she didn’t belong anywhere — wearing exhaustion like a second skin. Her dress was modest, plain, almost self-effacing. But her eyes…

Her eyes were drowning.

She ordered a whiskey.

Neat.

She knocked it back like medicine.

Then another.

Then another.

Yet she didn’t look sloppy.

She looked… unraveling.

When a man tried to talk to her, she brushed him off. Not rudely — but firmly. She wasn’t there to flirt. She wasn’t there for company.

She was there to forget.

And I…

I was there to disappear.

Our eyes met when I moved closer to the bar.

Not intentionally.

Just accidentally.

Or so I told myself at the time.

She blinked. Her lips parted slightly. And for a moment, she let me see her — not as a stranger — but as someone dying on the inside.

I could have looked away.

I should have.

But I didn’t.

I stepped beside her and said lightly, “Rough night?”

She laughed — bitterly — then inhaled sharply, as though the laugh cost her something.

“You could say that.”

“Who do I have to beat up for it?” I joked.

She didn’t smile.

Not at first.

Then finally — she gave me a half-smile.

“The world, maybe.”

I asked her name.

But she didn’t answer.

Instead, she said:

“I don’t want to talk. Talking makes things real. I don’t want real.”

That hit me.

“Then what do you want?”

She looked at me for a long, charged moment — then whispered:

“Escape.”

The hotel

We didn’t kiss in the bar.

We didn’t flirt.

We didn’t laugh.

We simply walked outside — and without speaking — began moving in the same direction. She walked beside me, arms folded, eyes ahead.

When we reached the hotel lobby doors, she hesitated. Just for a heartbeat.

Her breathing shallow.

Her cheeks flushed.

Her fingers trembling.

I could have stopped.

I could have told her to go home.

I could have been a decent man.

But I wasn’t.

She followed me inside.

The elevator ride was silent.

She leaned against the back wall, head tilted, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and intoxication and something else — something close to hopelessness.

When we got to the room, she stepped past me, dropped her small purse onto the dresser, kicked off her shoes — and turned to look at me.

It wasn’t shy.

It wasn’t uncertain.

It was deliberate.

She wanted this.

Her voice came low.

Barely audible.

“I don’t want gentle. Not tonight.”

I stared at her.

Not because I didn’t understand…

…but because I did.

I crossed the room slowly.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

When I reached her, I raised my hand to her cheek.

But she grabbed my wrist and pushed it downward.

“No tenderness,” she murmured. “Just… take me.”

There was hunger in her voice.

A dark hunger.

I slid my hands down her sides, gripping her hips, pulling her against me. She gasped, then exhaled shakily, her hands going to my shirt, unbuttoning it with frantic urgency.

When her fingers brushed my chest, she paused — just for a moment.

Then she pushed me back onto the bed.

She climbed onto me — straddling me — grinding down against the hardness pressing beneath my jeans. Her breath hitched — and then she whispered into my neck:

“Make me forget.”

Her hair cascaded over my face and chest as she moved — slowly at first — then with increasing intensity, her panting growing louder.

I slid my hands up her thighs, under her dress, gripping her ass hard — making her gasp. She leaned down, kissing me — open-mouthed, hungry — biting my lower lip a little too hard.

When I finally freed her from her clothing — she was stunning. Raw. Natural. Real. Not manicured and polished like the women I usually encountered.

Her body was soft — with real curves, real warmth — and when I thrust inside her for the first time, she let out a sound — half–moan, half–cry — that sent a violent shiver down my spine.

I gripped her thighs and moved her faster — harder — until she was breathless, fingers digging into my shoulders, head thrown back, mouth open.

She came — convulsing — trembling — shaking above me.

Then I flipped her onto her back and took her again — deeper — rougher — until she cried out into the pillow, fist clenched, back arched.

When I came — I buried myself fully inside her and felt her heartbeat flutter against mine.

For a moment — afterward — we lay there.

Quietly.

Her face buried in my shoulder.

Her breathing uneven.

Her eyelashes wet.

I wanted to ask her who hurt her.

I wanted to ask her what she was running from.

I wanted to ask her name.

But I didn’t.

Because she wasn’t looking for answers.

She was looking for an erasure.

The next morning, I woke to sunlight.

The bed was warm.

But empty.

She was gone.

No note.

No number.

Not even perfume lingering in the air.

She vanished like a dream that dissolves the moment you open your eyes.

I told myself it was fine.

A one-night thing.

A mistake I’d forget.

But I didn’t.

Her face stayed with me.

Her breathing.

Her trembling.

Her voice whispering:

“Just take me.”

I never expected to see her again.

Which is why — three weeks later — when Sophie introduced me to her mother —

my heart stopped.

My world dropped out beneath me.

And Claire looked like she had been hit by lightning.

Her lips parted.

Her body tensed.

Her hand shook as she reached out.

When our skin touched, accidental, during the handshake — her pulse jumped.

She snatched her hand back.

I kept my expression neutral.

I had to.

Sophie was smiling between us, oblivious.

Claire gave that careful smile — the same one she had worn at the bar before the unraveling.

And I knew.

I knew she remembered.

After dinner — (Present)

I sat beside Sophie in bed, staring at the ceiling.

She shifted, half-awake. “Can’t sleep?”

“No.”

“You’re thinking about your mom,” she guessed.

I swallowed.

Not the one she meant.

“Something like that.”

She moved closer, head on my shoulder.

“I know she’s… intense,” Sophie said gently. “But she’ll get used to us.”

If only she knew.

I felt sick with guilt.

Sophie loved me.

Sophie trusted me.

Sophie believed in me.

And here I was — haunted by the body of her mother.

I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly.

Then, without intending to, I whispered:

“She deserves honesty.”

Sophie didn’t hear. She was drifting back to sleep.

But I heard it.

And I wasn’t sure if the “she” I meant was Sophie…

…or Claire.