Chapter 3 One Night Stand
Caspian’s hand dropped from Xiomara’s waist like it had been burned.
He turned. His face went through something Veyra had never seen before. A full second of blankness. Like his brain had stopped working. Then the mask came down. The smile. The easy confidence. The man who could talk his way out of anything.
"Veyra." He said her name like he was testing it. Like he was not sure it would work. "Baby. What are you doing here?"
She did not answer. She pulled out her phone.
Xiomara was still pressed against him, her hand on her cheek, her eyes wide. She looked from Veyra to Caspian and back again. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. The pieces were clicking into place behind her face. The wife. The woman on the plane. The woman who slapped her. Her hand dropped from her cheek.
"Oh," Xiomara said. Her voice was small. "Oh."
Veyra held up her phone and pressed play.
Xiomara’s voice filled the arrivals hall. Bright and proud. Describing the mother. The money. The miscarriage. The Chanel clutch. The words hung in the air between them. Passengers turned to look. A woman with a suitcase stopped walking. A man in a business suit froze mid step.
Caspian’s face went gray. His hands came up like he was going to reach for the phone, but he stopped. He just stood there, his arms half raised, his mouth open.
Xiomara made a sound. A small, strangled thing. She grabbed Caspian’s arm. "Caspian, I didn’t know she was—"
He shook her off.
The recording kept playing. Xiomara’s voice: He was furious. All that disruption for nothing. Veyra let it run. She let it play long enough for Caspian to hear every word. Long enough for Xiomara to hear herself. Long enough for the people around them to understand what kind of man Caspian Thorne really was.
Then she pocketed the phone.
Caspian finally found his voice. "Veyra, listen to me. Whatever you heard, it’s not what you think. She exaggerates. She makes things up. You know how women like that are."
Veyra looked at him. She looked at him for a long moment.
"How do women like that be, Caspian?"
He blinked. "I didn’t mean—"
"You meant exactly what you said." Her voice was calm. She was surprised by how calm it was. "You’ve been telling her I’m boring in bed. Is that also an exaggeration?"
His face did something. Guilt and fear and calculation all fighting for space.
"Veyra—"
"Don’t." She held up her hand. "Don’t say my name like that. Don’t pretend."
Xiomara was crying now. Real tears or fake tears, Veyra could not tell. She did not care. Xiomara was saying something about being sorry, about not knowing, about how Caspian had told her the marriage was over. Veyra did not listen. She was watching Caspian’s face. Watching the way he looked at Xiomara when she cried. The way his hand twitched toward her before he remembered Veyra was standing there.
She thought about the night she lost the baby. The way he had held her. The way his voice had been calm and measured. He had told her it was okay. He had told her they would try again. He had been the steady one, the strong one, the one who kept it together while she fell apart.
She understood now that he had not been strong. He had been relieved.
She turned and walked away.
She did not run. She did not look back. She walked the way women walk when they are done. Her heels clicked on the polished floor. Behind her, she heard Caspian say her name again. Louder this time. Then Xiomara’s voice, rising. Then nothing. She kept walking.
*
*
*
She found a bar. She did not remember choosing it. She just walked until she saw lights and went inside.
The bar was in a hotel. Somewhere near the airport, maybe. Leather booths. Low music. A bartender who did not look up when she came in.
She ordered a drink. Then another.
She sat alone and turned Xiomara’s words over in her mind. The ones about the money. The mother. The ring. But there was something else. Something Xiomara had said on the plane, almost as an afterthought. That Caspian found her boring. That she did not try anymore. That she was not a real woman.
She had thought, in the moments when she let herself wonder why he stopped touching her, that maybe it was her. Maybe she had changed. Maybe the grief of losing the baby had made her different. Maybe she was not exciting enough. Not young enough. Not enough.
She had not been the problem.
She finished her drink and ordered another. She was not a woman who did impulsive things. She was the sprt of woman who calculated, who saved, who waited and she was done waiting.
She looked across the bar.
There was a man at the far end. And he was looking back.
He was not like Caspian. Caspian was handsome in a safe way. Predictable. The type of handsome that came from good grooming and expensive haircuts. This man was something else. He was tall and broad shouldered. Dark hair. Strong jaw. He was wearing a suit that fit him perfectly, but he wore it like he did not care about it. His sleeves were rolled up. His tie was loose. He was holding a glass of something amber and he was looking at her like she was the only person in the room.
She looked away. Then she looked back.
He was still watching.
She made a decision. She stood up, picked up her drink, and crossed the bar. Her legs felt steady. Her hands did not shake. She stopped beside his table.
"Is this seat taken?"
His mouth curved. It was a slow thing, that smile. Like he was not used to smiling but had decided to make an exception.
"It is now."
She sat down across from him. The booth was leather and warm. The table between them was small. Close enough that she could see the color of his eyes. Gray. Almost silver in the low light.
He did not ask her name. She did not offer it.
"What brings you here?" he said. His voice was low. Rough at the edges.
"Bad day," she said.
"Bad enough to drink alone in a hotel bar?"
"Bad enough to drink with a stranger."
He laughed. It was a quiet sound.
"I’m Dorian," he said.
She waited for him to ask her name. He did not.
"What about you?" she said. "Bad day?"
"No." He swirled the liquid in his glass. "Good day, actually. But it just got better."
She should have rolled her eyes. She should have said something clever. Instead, she felt something loosen in her chest. Something she had been holding tight for a very long time.
They talked. Low voices. Close. The music was soft, some jazz thing she did not recognize. He asked her where she was from. She said somewhere cold. He asked if she missed it. She said she missed who she was when she lived there. He did not push. He just nodded like he understood.
He told her he was in town for a meeting. Something about companies. She did not ask for details. He was funny in a dry way that caught her off guard. He made her laugh twice.
When he leaned in to hear her over the music, she could smell him. Cedar and warmth. Clean skin. She found herself watching his mouth when he spoke.
She kissed him first.
She leaned across the table and she kissed him. It was not tentative. She did not want to be tentative anymore. His hand came up and cupped her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. He kissed her back like he had been waiting for it. Like he had been hoping.
When she pulled back, his eyes were dark.
"My room is upstairs," he said.
She nodded.
*
*
*
What happened after that was nothing like what she had known.
Dorian did not treat her like a habit. He was patient in a way that was devastating. Every touch is deliberate and unhurried. He kissed her like he had the whole night and intended to use it.
He took her to his room and closed the door behind them. The room was expensive. She noticed that without meaning to.
He turned her around in the dim light and unzipped her dress. His fingers were steady. His hands were warm on her shoulders. He pressed his mouth to the back of her neck and she closed her eyes.
"You’re shaking," he murmured against her skin.
She did not answer.
He turned her back to face him. He looked at her for a long moment. Not like he was appraising her. Like he was seeing her. He touched her face. Her jaw. Her throat. His hand moved slow.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
She could not remember the last time anyone asked her that.
"I want to feel something," she said. "Anything. Just make me feel something."
His expression changed. Softened. He kissed her again, slower this time, and his hands moved down her sides. He lifted her easily. She wrapped her legs around him and he carried her to the bed.
He was gentle in a way that was almost unbearable. He took his time. He touched her like he was learning her. He whispered things against her skin that she would replay later, when she was alone. His hands were everywhere. He found places she had forgotten she had. He made her wait. He made her ask. And when she finally let go, when she stopped thinking and just felt, she understood something.
She had not been the problem.
She had never been the problem.
*
*
She lay awake after. Dorian was beside her, his breathing slow and even. The room was dark. The sheets were cool against her skin. She listened to him breathe for a long time.
She thought about staying. She thought about what it would be like to be here when he woke up. To let him make her coffee. To let him ask her name.
She only knew that she was a woman who had spent three years giving everything to a man who gave her nothing. And she was done.
She slipped out of bed. Her dress was on the floor. She found it in the dark and pulled it on. Her shoes. Her bag. She moved quietly, the way women learn to move when they need to leave without being noticed.
Dorian shifted in his sleep. She froze. He did not wake.
She looked at him one more time. The shape of his shoulders in the dark. The line of his jaw. The way his hair fell across his forehead.
Then she opened the door and she left.