Chapter Three: Tangled Nights

The rooftop glittered like a dream.

Lights flickered in soft golds and violets, music thumped in waves that seemed to pulse right through my skin, and laughter rose around me in bursts like firecrackers. I sipped something that tasted like strawberries and summer secrets, swaying a little to the beat.

This was it.

My first party.

My first real step into a world I’d been locked out of.

And God, it was intoxicating ….. the air, the freedom, the heat.

I didn’t know how many drinks I’d had. Two? Four? Something sweet, then something fizzy, then something with a strange blue tint I couldn’t pronounce. I stopped counting after the second glass. Tonight wasn’t for numbers.

It was for forgetting.

For remembering who I could be.

“Careful,” a deep voice murmured as someone caught my elbow.

I stumbled slightly, laughing at something a stranger said, but the voice that steadied me wasn’t the same. It was silk and smoke.

I looked up, and the man’s face was in the shadows. All I saw was a jawline …. sharp and defined …. and a silhouette dressed in black. His touch was light but firm, his fingers brushing fire into my skin.

“Thanks,” I said, blinking slowly, the music echoing in my ears.

He didn’t say anything else. Just tipped his head slightly and let go of me. But for the rest of the night, I kept catching glimpses of him. In the corners. At the bar. Near the DJ booth.

Never close.

Never far.

Just there.

Like a ghost tethered to mine.

I don’t know what drew me to him.

Maybe it was the way he didn’t chase me, didn’t try to charm me like the others had.

Maybe it was the air around him…… like he didn’t care who saw him, or maybe he wanted to disappear entirely.

Or maybe it was me.

Maybe I just wanted to feel something different. Something reckless.

And when I saw him again ….. leaning against the balcony railing, a drink in hand, the city lights painting his skin in gold . I walked up to him without thinking.

“Mind if I stand here?” I asked.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then, “It’s your night too, isn’t it?”

There was something in his voice. Low, almost tired. But it made my pulse skip.

We didn’t talk much.

Didn’t need to.

Sometimes connection isn’t in words. It’s in glances. In shared silences that say more than full conversations.

I laughed at nothing. He smirked at something I said. Our shoulders brushed. My skin buzzed. His eyes… too dark to read in the night ….. held mine for a beat too long.

Then someone bumped into me, and I stumbled.

Again, his hand caught me.

This time, it stayed longer.

And maybe it was the alcohol.

Maybe it was the loneliness I didn’t want to admit.

Maybe it was fate.

Then the words slipped out before I could stop them.

“How much for a night?”

No hesitation.

No fear.

Just heat and hunger and that unfamiliar voice in my head whispering, Live.

I could’ve sworn I felt his face change, but he replied calmly,

“Where do you live? Let me ask someone to take you home.”

And then I did the dumbest thing ever.

I kissed him and whispered in his ear,

“I want you… and I’m not leaving without you tonight. My place or your place?”

---

The apartment smelled faintly of leather and something expensive.

The space was sleek, masculine, and oddly quiet for a man like him.

I barely looked around.

I didn’t care about the art on the walls or the way the marble counter reflected moonlight. All I could focus on was the feel of his lips when they found mine.

His kiss was deep. Confident. Like he knew what he wanted and how to take it.

I kissed him back harder.

Clothes melted away. Buttons hit the floor. Fingertips skimmed bare skin.

My back hit silk sheets.

My breath caught in my throat.

His body hovered above mine — toned, warm, unfamiliar, and thrilling.

I couldn’t see his face.

The room was dark.

His back was mostly turned as he undressed.

And when he joined me in bed, I was already drunk on adrenaline and sensation.

We didn’t speak again.

Just moved.

Danced.

Sank into something wild and wordless.

I gasped when he traced his mouth down my collarbone.

He groaned when I pulled him closer.

And in those moments, it didn’t matter who we were.

As long as it wasn’t Robert.

Or that old man.

As long as he was someone I chose for myself…

Everything else didn’t matter.

We were just strangers with a connection.

I knew I’d regret it by morning, but I didn’t care.

And I knew we’d never meet again.

We were just bodies.

Fire.

Need.

---

The room was silent when I woke up.

The first light of dawn crept through floor-length windows, casting gold slants across the bed and floor.

I blinked.

Head heavy.

Mouth dry.

My limbs ached….. in the best way.

For a moment, I didn’t move.

I just stared at the ceiling.

Had I really done that?

Yes.

And a part of me regretted it.

But at the same time… no part of me regretted it.

I rolled onto my side slowly, the silk sheet sliding down my bare back.

He was still asleep beside me.

His body turned away.

The lines of his back rose with each deep breath — smooth and sculpted, his skin a rich shade of bronze touched by the early morning sun.

I let my eyes trace him.

There was something oddly peaceful about the way he lay there.

Like a man who carried too much in the day and finally dropped it at night.

The tension in his shoulders was gone.

His face — what little I could see — softened in rest.

But I didn’t look too hard.

I didn’t want to know.

I didn’t want names or stories or the risk of being disappointed.

This wasn’t about forever.

This was about now.

I slipped quietly out of bed, careful not to make a sound.

My dress was crumpled on the floor, and I stepped into it like armor.

My heels dangled from my fingers.

I padded barefoot toward the door, heart hammering.

Then I paused.

I reached into my clutch and pulled out a folded bill — the only cash I had left.

A hundred dollars.

I placed it gently on the nightstand beside the bed.

A laugh escaped me.

Soft.

Disbelieving.

Not because I thought he’d asked for it — he hadn’t.

But because I wanted to leave with the upper hand.

The final say.

The ghost of a smirk danced on my lips as I grabbed a pen from the desk and scribbled on the envelope:

“Thanks for the night. Keep the lights off next time.”

I didn’t sign it.

I didn’t need to.

I left before the sun fully rose.

Before his eyes opened.

Before my courage faded.

I didn’t look back.

If I did, I might not have left.