The Cold Treatment

Elena’s POV

The bed felt so soft, the smell from the bedsheet different from anything I had ever known. I rolled over, the bed quite bigger than the bed I was used to. My hands slowly patted the empty side of the bed, only to feel pillows.

As I turned, a sharp beam of light flashed through the curtains, poking my eyes like an unwelcome intruder. I squinted immediately, my hands rubbing my eyes, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness.

I turned to see a man standing by the window at the other end of the room, his silhouette outlined against the morning sun. I looked at the room, taking it all in.

By the corner of the room was a mini bar with all kinds of wines in stock, their bottles gleaming like jewels. I turned, my eyes darting toward the empty wine glass on the bedside table, a half-burnt cigarette resting in an ashtray, and a half-filled glass of wine.

My gaze went back to the man standing by the window. He was adjusting his cufflinks, his movements precise and unhurried. He stood there, not bothered by my obvious confusion, as if my presence was nothing more than an inconvenience.

I tried to recall what happened, but my head ached, suddenly feeling heavy. I had to hold up my head with my hand, my palm pressing against my temples. My hair fell over my face as I threw it back, and beneath the bedsheets was my naked body.

My grip tightened on the bedsheets upon realization, my knuckles whitening.

"Get up and get dressed, then leave."

The man at the window spoke, his voice cold and detached. At first, I wasn't sure if he was talking to me, so I turned, searching for another imaginary figure in the room. But it was only me.

"Did we… did we have sex?" I asked, finally summoning the courage to ask the question that was lingering on my mind like a plague. My ABS was acting up again. I had poor alcohol control, and with my ABS, even a drop could make me tipsy.

"Last night was a mistake. It never happened," the man said, his tone dismissive.

His actions afterwards disgusted me.

He brought out a bundle of cash from his pocket, throwing it on top of the bed with a casual flick of his wrist. The bundle was heavily stacked with hundred-dollar bills, and I could swear the total money could amount to a hundred thousand dollars. My gaze darted from the cash on the bed to the man by the window.

"What's the meaning of this?" I asked, my voice rising. I felt disgusted—literally wanted to throw up.

"Oh!" He said, laughing. He turned, his eyes meeting mine for the first time. "How pathetic of you! You want more?" He asked, his hand dipping into his side pocket to bring out more money—I guess.

I picked up the pillow and threw it at him with all my strength. "I'm not a prostitute, you bastard! How dare you touch me? You took advantage of me!" I yelled, my voice cracking with fury.

The pillow fell off his hands after the impact. He looked at the pillow that rested on his well-polished business loafer, his gaze darting back to me with an expression of cold amusement.

"Well, here we go again," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "The frantic stage where they pretend that they didn't want this so I could throw more money at them." He kicked the pillow off his foot as he walked closer to me, his steps slow and deliberate.

"What do you mean? Are you nuts?" I yelled, my hands gripping the bedsheet tighter.

The man approached, bringing out another bundle of money. He used it to hit my face.

"Shut up, bitch."

He kept repeating it as he slammed my face with each bundle of money, the crisp bills slapping against my skin like a cruel punishment.

At that moment, I was supposed to channel the tigress energy in me, to fight back and defend myself. But I felt weak and numb. I couldn't even move. Tears flowed down my cheeks as I observed the scene, my body betraying me.

"Crying? That's a new one," he said, a smirk curling his lips. "Was the money not enough?" His hand went down into his pocket to bring out another bundle.

But my hands were swift as they landed a slap on his face. His glasses fell to the floor, the lenses shattering into pieces on the marble.

For a moment, I stood there on my knees on top of the bed, watching my reaction, and I couldn't help but wonder: What have I just done?

I didn't know how he would react.

I had expected him to land a slap on my face in return, to unleash his fury upon me. But he only stood up straight, spitting out blood from his mouth onto my face.

He wore a devilish smile that seemed to mock me, to remind me of my place. He turned, his back facing me, and walked out of the hotel room. He slammed the door heavily, making a loud thud that I feared would break the chandelier that was almost dangling from the ceiling.

I fell on the bed, tears streaming down my face. How did I get here? What happened? Who was that man, and why were we in the same bed together? I stood up from the bed, the bedsheets falling off my body, exposing my bare skin to the cold early morning breeze.

I walked through the room, looking at the mess. My silk gown pooled on the floor like a transparent lake, while my heels were in two different places, as if imitating the ears on our head.

My mind immediately raced to my purse. Where was it? My eyes scanned the room until I discovered my purse on top of the bar I had spotted earlier.

I walked toward it, my hands reaching for it, but a slight ache in my head made me stagger backward. I placed my hands on my head, my eyes tightly shut, trying to balance my thoughts and head. After what felt like an eternity, I opened my eyes, my hands grabbing my purse.

I dug inside, my hands reaching for my phone. My phone had two messages. I tapped on the notifications, and the messages popped up on my screen.

"Where are you, Elena!?"

"Have you seen the news?"

They were messages from my bestfriend, Maggie. What news? I felt a sharp headache, the pounding intensifying. I wasn't ready for all of this.

I shoved my phone into my bag as I walked back to my silk lake on the floor, picking it up and putting it on. I took my heels and wore them, my fingers fumbling with the straps. I walked toward the mirror, my hands running through my hair as I took a last glance before walking out of the bedroom.

I walked into the hallway, eyes from other exiting girls fixed on me like they’d just seen a ghost. I didn't know what I did wrong. Was it my outfit? Was it my hair? I just felt so out of place, and I knew immediately that I didn't fit in. I needed to remember how I got here in the first place, and that would be done over a plate of hangover soup.

I strode out of the hotel, booking a cab to a nearby restaurant. I sat at the restaurant, a plate of hangover soup readily served before me. I dived in, taking scoops like I was coming from a seven-day fasting.

The warm broth soothed my frayed nerves, and as I sat there taking in the scoops, my thoughts that once appeared fragmented began to add up. I could remember what happened that night and what led to me and a strange man lying on the same bed.