Chapter 1

“The Sound Like A Song”

Elara's POV

When did I become this person?

I adjusted the neckline again. Low this time.

The drink before me sat in a shiny bowl. Water drops fell on the white table like silent tears. I looked at myself again and again. I wore a red dress that hugged my body. Bryan used to love me and hold me once. I was special to him. Now, he just puts up with me.

My phone lights up. I lunge for it, pathetic and eager, but it's just a random email notification. Bryan hasn't texted since this morning's curt "Running late. Start without me if you want."

On Valentine's Day.

Our fifth anniversary.

I poured a drink. Then I poured one more. The bubbles hurt my throat. I looked out the big window. The city shimmered below, thousands of tiny lights glowing like fallen stars. 

The room is very expensive and it beats the cost of my dress. Bryan chose it because he wanted to show our love off. 

"I'm sorry I've been distant. I know work has been stressful for you. I'll try harder to understand." I soliloquized, memorizing the words I've rehearsed all week. 

The apologetic words hurt in my throat. They felt sharp. I asked myself why I should say sorry. Is it because I spoke up when he did not come to my father’s burial? Is it because I asked why he comes home late and smells like another woman? Is it wrong to want kindness from the man who said he would love me forever?

But marriage is a compromise, right? That's what everyone says. That's what his mother says every time she reminds me how lucky I am that her son chose someone "like me."

I hated how small I've become. How I've folded myself into shapes that don't fit just to make room for his ego.

The hotel room door clicks. My heart leaps stupidly, traitorously. I stood too fast, smoothing down my dress, painting on a smile that feels like a mask.

But the door didn't open.

I waited, but silence entertained me instead. 

Possibly he's taking a call. Maybe he's checking how he looks in the hallway mirror because God forbid Bryan Hale looks anything less than perfect. I've seen him spend twenty minutes on his hair before a casual dinner.

I sat back down. I stood up. Then poured more champagne.

Then I heard it.

A sound that felt wrong for this silent place. It started soft and gentle. Almost like a song. It is a woman’s sound. She moans freely. The sound moves through the thick walls like smoke.

My first thought was how thin these supposedly luxury walls must be. My second thought was sympathy for whoever's in the neighboring suite, getting their money's worth from the romance package.

My third thought never fully forms because I heard his voice.

Bryan. 

Low and rough, muttering words I can't quite make out but recognize in the cadence, in the rhythm. The same tone he used to use with me, back when we still touched each other without flinching.

No.

My mind rejects it immediately. Hotels are full of men. Voices sound similar in hallways. I'm being paranoid, crazy, exactly what he accuses me of being whenever I question the late nights and the locked phone and the way he flinches when I try to hold his hand.

But my body knows before my brain accepts it. My body is already moving, barefoot across the plush carpet, heart slamming against my ribs so hard I think I might crack open.

The champagne makes everything feel surreal, like I'm watching myself from outside my own skin. The hallway is empty. Silent except for that sound, louder now, unmistakable.

And his voice again. "God, Lucía. Right there."

Lucía.

The name registers somewhere in the back of my mind. The pretty hotel staff who ushered us in, who smiled at Bryan like he was the only guest in the building, who looked at me like I was a wallpaper.

I shouldn't walk toward it. I should turn around, go back to the suite, pack my things, and leave with whatever dignity I have left.

But instead, my feet carry me down the hall like I was dreaming, like this wasn't real, like maybe if I saw it with my own eyes it will somehow make sense or disappear or transform into something I can survive.

The door was slightly open. Not wide, but enough. Just enough for me to see inside the room. It looked like ours. The same shape. The same champagne bucket. The same roses. The roses were meant to speak of love. But there's no love in what I see.

Bryan has her bent over the desk, her hotel uniform pooled on the floor, his hands gripping her hips with a desperation I haven't seen directed at me in over a year, using his cock excellently on her pussy. Her back arches, his name a prayer on her lips, and the intimacy of it, the raw need, hits me harder than the physical act.

This isn't just sex. This is passion and connection. The kind of intensity that's been missing from our bed for so long I forgot what it looked like.

The room tilts. Sound becomes distant, muffled, like I'm underwater. I saw his mouth on her clit, her fingers tangled in his hair, the same hair I touched this morning while he was still sleeping, trying to remember when we stopped being us.

The red dress suddenly feels obscene. A costume for a play where I don't know my lines, where I'm not even in the right theater.

Bryan lifts his head, and our eyes meet.

Time stops.

His face goes white, then red. His mouth forms my name, "Elara," but I didn't hear it over the rushing in my ears.

Lucía gasps, scrambles to cover herself, her eyes wide with something that might be guilt or might just be surprise at getting caught.

I should scream. Cry. Throw something. Do any of the things a woman does when she catches her husband, her future, her entire life plan, buried inside someone else.

But I didn't.

I just stood there, watching the last five years crumble into dust, watching the future I'd imagined, the children we'd talked about, the house we were going to buy, all of it dissolving like sugar in rain.

Then I turned and walked away.

My feet move mechanically. Back down the hallway, past our suite, past the life I thought I had. The elevator bay swims in my vision. I punch the button with shaking fingers.

Behind me, I heard the door slam, I heard Bryan calling my name, but I didn't turn around.

The elevator arrives with a soft chime that sounds like a death knell.

I stepped inside.

The doors began to close, and I caught my reflection in the polished metal. Lipstick smudged at the corner of my mouth. Mascara started to run even though I haven't cried yet. Eyes that look hollow, empty, like someone scooped out everything that made me human and left just a shell.

The weight of it crashes down all at once. Everything is broken. Everything.

The doors seal shut with a final, silent click.