CHAPTER 2

 “A Room Without Him”

Elara's POV

The elevator deposits me in the lobby, and I realize I'm barefoot. My shoes are still in the suite. The suite where my husband probably put his clothes back on, probably kissed her one more time before chasing after his wife.

The marble floor is cold against my feet. A couple walks past, holding hands, laughing about something private and beautiful. They don't see me. I'm a ghost already.

"Miss? Are you alright?"

A young woman in a hotel uniform approaches. Not Lucía, thank God. This one has kind eyes and a name tag that reads "Sofia."

"I need a different room." My voice sounds normal. How is my voice normal? "Please. Right now."

"Of course. Let me check what we have available." She doesn't ask questions. Maybe she can see it written all over me, the specific kind of devastation that comes from being replaced. "If you'll just come to the desk?"

I follow her on numb feet. The lobby swirls around me, all golden light and romantic music and couples who still believe in forever. My phone vibrates in my clutch. Once. Twice. Ten times in rapid succession.

At the desk, Sofia types quickly, professionally ignoring the way my hands shake when I sign the new registration card. "Room 1247. Twelfth floor. I'll have someone bring up your luggage from the penthouse suite."

"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "I don't want anything from that room. Nothing."

"Are you sure? Your belongings..."

"Burn them. I don't care." I take the key card she slides across the counter. Our fingers brush, and I see pity flash across her face. I hate it. I hate that my humiliation is obvious, and that strangers can see the pathetic woman who got cheated on during her anniversary vacation. So sad! 

"Is there anything else we can do for you tonight?"

"Make sure Bryan Hale doesn't know my room number."

Her eyes widened slightly. She knows who he is then. Probably helped check us in, probably thought we were the perfect couple with our perfect suite and our perfect expensive romance package.

"Of course. Your privacy is guaranteed."

I walk to the elevators again. A different one this time. I can't get in the same one, can't stand in the same space where I saw my hollow reflection.

My phone won't stop buzzing. I pulled it out.

Thirty-seven missed calls. Twenty-three texts.

I scrolled through them, and each sent a fire down my spine. 

“Elara, can I at least explain?”

“Baby, it didn't mean anything.” 

“You're just overreacting.” 

“Where are you?” 

“Answer me!!!” 

“I love you. And you know that like your name.” 

“This is exactly why we have problems, you never let me talk.” 

That last one makes something hot and violent surge through my chest. Even now, caught in the most unforgivable act, he's making this my fault.

I block his number. The silence is immediate and terrifying.

The twelfth floor is identical to the fifteenth. Same carpet, same wallpaper, same artificial elegance. But when I open the door to 1247, the room is blessedly smaller. No champagne. No roses. No memories.

I lock the door. Bolt it. Put on the security latch.

Then I walk straight to the bathroom and barely make it to the toilet before I throw up everything. The champagne burns coming back up. My body heaves until there's nothing left, until I'm just dry sobbing into the porcelain bowl.

When I can finally stand, I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

The red dress looks obscene now. A costume for a woman who doesn't exist anymore. I peel it off, let it fall to the floor in a puddle of silk and broken promises. My hands found the scissors in the hotel amenity kit, and before I could think better of it, I was cutting. Shredding the fabric into pieces, destroying the dress I spent three hundred dollars on, that I starved myself for a week to fit into, that I wore hoping Bryan would look at me the way he used to.

The way he looked at her tonight.

The scissors clatter into the sink and I was standing in my underwear surrounded by red fabric scraps, breathing hard, feeling nothing and everything all at once.

I turn on the shower as hot as it will go and step under the spray.

The water scalds my skin, but I don't adjust it. I scrub at my body like I could wash away the image burned into my brain. Bryan’s hands on her. His mouth on her clit. His cock on her pussy. The desperation in the way he fucked her hard, the passion I thought had died but was apparently just redirected to another body. 

How long has this been going on? How many times has he touched her while I waited at home, preparing dinners he was too busy to eat, ironing shirts he wore to meet her?

The flashbacks came in waves.

Six months ago. Me asking why he came home at 2 a.m. Him saying I was paranoid, controlling, that his job required late nights and if I really loved him I'd trust him.

A year ago. Finding a receipt for lingerie I never received. Him saying it was for his secretary's birthday, calling me insecure when I questioned it.

Two years ago. Him missing my father's funeral because of a "work emergency." Me apologizing for being emotional when he finally showed up three days later.

Every fight where I ended up comforting him. Every accusation I swallowed because he said I was the problem. Every time I made myself smaller so he could feel bigger.

I slide down the shower wall and sob. Finally, the tears come like a flood, ripping out of me in ugly, gasping sounds that I'm glad no one can hear.

I cry for the woman I was before Bryan convinced me I was difficult. I cry for the five years I wasted trying to be enough for a man who was never going to choose me. I cry for the future I imagined, the children who will never exist, the life that was always a lie.

When the water runs cold, I turn it off and wrap myself in the hotel robe. It's soft and clean and smells like lavender. Just like new beginnings, maybe.

My phone sits on the bathroom counter, dark and silent now that I've blocked him. Part of me wants to unblock it, to read his excuses, to let him talk his way back in like he always does.

But, I throw it across the room. It hit the wall and cracked but didn't shatter completely. 

I climbed into the bed devoid of his smell , in a new room where our memories are absent, and stared at the ceiling. The hotel was silent except for the muffled sounds of other people's lives happening around me.

I should fly home tomorrow. Get as far away from this place as possible. But running feels like losing twice. Just like admitting he broke me.

And I won't give him that.

This vacation was supposed to prove something. That we could fix it. That I was enough. That love conquers all the bullshit we'd been drowning in.

But I see it clearly now. This trip was never about love. It was about my desperation. About clinging to a fantasy while the reality rotted underneath.

I'm done clinging.

The decision settles over me like armor. I'll stay. I'll finish this vacation alone. I'll prove to myself that I don't need him to exist.

My eyes were just starting to close when I heard it.

A knock at the door.

Soft, hesitant and alarming. Three gentle taps.

My whole body tenses. This man has found me. Somehow Bryan found out my room number, probably charmed it out of someone, probably used that smile that used to work on me.

I didn't move.

 I didn't breathe.

Another knock again. Harder this time. 

"Elara? Please, It's not Bryan. Please. I need to talk to you."

The voice was feminine in accent and the familiarity in it made my stomach turn.

Lucía.