Room 612

"He'll come," Celeste said. "He's wrecked."

Daniel swirled his whiskey in the hotel bar and said nothing. The room was nearly empty, all amber lamps and low jazz. A photographer in a gray hoodie nursed a soda two stools down, pretending to read the menu.

"You're sure about the room?"

"I told the concierge to send up a bottle of scotch with Julian's name on it. He'll have had three drinks by the time he gets to me." Celeste smoothed her silk robe, calm as a woman discussing the weather. "My father's ultimatum, your little photograph, and the girl he thinks lied to him. He'll walk in wanting someone to be kind. I'll be kind."

"And Amara?"

"A text at ten-thirty. She'll come. She's the type." Celeste's mouth curved. "She can't help rescuing people. It's her worst quality."

Daniel set down his glass. For a moment something moved behind his eyes, brief and ugly. "I want her to see it. I want her to look at him and feel exactly what I felt when she kissed him in front of everyone."

"I only want him back," Celeste said lightly. "What you do with the pieces is your business."

They clinked glasses.

------

Julian was on his fourth drink when Celeste found him in the lobby bar.

He sat hunched on a stool with his tie gone and his collar open, staring into amber liquid as though it owed him an apology. He looked nothing like the man who'd stood on that dais forty-eight hours ago.

"Julian." Celeste's voice was soft. "You look dreadful."

"Thank you."

"Come upstairs. I'll get you some water."

"Not interested."

"Richard's willing to talk, but only if you hear him out." She touched his sleeve. "Ten minutes. Please."

He should have said no. A sober Julian would have, but this one was tired and aching and wanted very badly to stop thinking about Amara's face in a café window, her hand almost in his brother's.

"Ten minutes," he muttered, and let her lead him to the elevator.

------

At 10:58, Amara stood outside Room 612, trying to decide whether she was brave or foolish.

Both, she thought. Probably both.

The door wasn't fully shut. A line of golden light fell across the carpet, and from inside she heard Celeste's voice, low and tender.

"Shh. You're tired. Let me help."

Amara pushed the door open.

The room was dim. A lamp glowed beside the bed. Julian sat on the edge of the mattress with his shirt half-unbuttoned and his head bowed, one hand pressed to his forehead. In front of him, kneeling on the bed, with her robe slipping off one shoulder and both hands on his chest, was Celeste.

Her face was inches from his. Her lips were already parted.

Amara's whole body went cold.

Julian lifted his head. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, red at the rims. He looked at the doorway.

"Amara?" he said, slurring.

Celeste didn't jump. She turned slowly, as if she'd been expecting the interruption, and gave Amara a look of wide, wounded innocence.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, you weren't supposed to see this."

"Get away from him."

"Amara, he asked me to stay. He said you didn't trust him—"

"I said nothing of the kind." Julian struggled to stand. His hand caught the bedpost, and the room seemed to tilt around him. "Celeste, what are you—what is she—"

"You told me you were tired of being lied to," Celeste said softly. "You said she met Daniel in secret. You said you'd never been so hurt."

"I said that to the bartender!"

"Julian," Amara said, very quietly.

He turned. For a long moment, they looked at each other across the dim room, and she saw everything in his face: shame, confusion, a wild drunken desperation. But she also saw the open shirt, the lipstick on his collar, the woman in the silk robe who stood near him like she had every right.

He was going to, she thought. He was about to.

Something inside her chest quietly cracked.

"I'm so sorry I interrupted," she said, and her voice came out perfectly steady. "I'll let you finish."

"Amara, wait—"

"You said you needed one night." She turned toward the corridor. "I hope it was worth it."

"Amara!"

She was already walking, fast, past the ice machine and the framed prints and the elevator that refused to arrive. She heard a crash behind her and Julian's voice, raw and furious, shouting her name down the hall.

She took the stairs.

On the fourth landing, her legs finally gave out. She sat down on the cold concrete, pressed both fists to her mouth, and cried without making a sound.

Stupid, she thought. Stupid, stupid girl. You knew. You always knew what men like him do.

Above her, the stairwell door slammed open.

Footsteps thundered down. A hand grabbed the railing, and Julian staggered into view, breathing hard, shirt hanging open, eyes wild.

"It isn't what you think!"

"It never is." She stood and wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Go back to Celeste, Julian. I hope she's worth everything you're about to lose."

"I'm not—I wouldn't—" He was swaying. "I don't remember how I got there."

"Convenient."

"Amara, please."

"Don't follow me."

She descended the last four flights alone, and he didn't come after her. When she reached the lobby, she looked back once, up the long spiral of the stairwell, and saw him standing at the top with both hands braced on the rail.

He looked like a man who had just watched everything he owned go up in smoke.

On the sixth floor, Room 612's door opened a crack. Celeste stood in the gap, one hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.

Behind her, in the shadows, Daniel lifted his phone and smiled.