2: Betrayed

The next morning, Amelia wakes up in a luxurious hotel room, sunlight streaming through the curtains. Her head throbs, and her mouth is dry. Confused, she tries to sit up, but fails as she looked around her.

This isn’t her room.

Amelia stirred, her head pounding with every beat of her racing heart. Groaning, she turned onto her side, her body aching as though she’d run a marathon. The plush sheets beneath her felt foreign, too soft, too unfamiliar.

Her eyes fluttered open, squinting against the daylight as she took in her surroundings again. Panic bubbled in her chest. This wasn’t her bedroom. The walls were of rich textures and hues – emerald green, navy blue, and champagne – created a sophisticated ambiance. Original artwork and sculptures added a touch of elegance.

Amelia sat up abruptly, clutching the blanket to her chest. That’s when she noticed—her clothes were gone. Her breath hitched as she pulled the sheet tighter around her trembling body. Fragments of the previous night swirled in her mind: Claire’s mischievous grin, the cocktail in her hand, the stranger’s magnetic eyes, the sway of the music as they danced. Then… nothing. Just a blur.

She forced herself to focus, scanning the room for her belongings. Her dress, shoes, and purse were littered on the polished marble floor. Her phone lay on the nightstand, its screen dark. Swallowing hard, she reached for it, hoping for answers. Her fingers trembled as she unlocked it. No missed calls. No texts. Nothing that explained how she ended up here.

Her stomach churned as she tried to piece the night together. She remembered the stranger guiding her out of the lounge, the cool air on her face, the sensation of her legs barely holding her weight. He’d mentioned something—room 221?

Her blood ran cold. Was this his room?

Panic clawed at her as she looked around again, desperate for clues. On the desk, a small card caught her eye: "The Regal Suites - Room 212." Her confusion deepened. This wasn’t even the room she vaguely remembered hearing last night. Or had she heard wrong?

The faintest scent of cologne lingered in the air, and Amelia’s heart sank further. Someone had been here. Was it the stranger? Did… did something happen? Her hands gripped the sheets so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“Think, Amelia,” she whispered to herself, her voice shaking. “What happened last night?”

Her stomach twisted as she pushed herself out of the bed, the sheet wrapped around her like armor. She searched the room more thoroughly, finding nothing out of place except for her disheveled state. No evidence of who had brought her here or why she was undressed.

A sudden knock on the door startled her. Her breath caught in her throat as she froze.

“Room service,” a muffled voice called from the other side.

Amelia didn’t answer, her mind racing. Whoever was on the other side knocked again, but after a moment, the sound of retreating footsteps reassured her that they were gone. She sank onto the edge of the bed, tears welling in her eyes.

Her thoughts spiraled. What had Claire done? Did Claire know about this? And where was Brad—her fiancé, the man she was supposed to marry in just a few days? Shame and fear clawed at her as she buried her face in her hands.

She needed answers. She needed to get out of this room. And most of all, she needed to figure out how her life had spiraled so far out of control in just one night.

As she gathers her belongings to leave, she notices her phone beep. It was a text from Claire: “Hope you had fun last night? Don’t tell Brad!"

Amelia froze, her phone slipping from her grasp and landing softly on the bed. Claire’s message glared back at her like a neon sign: “Hope you had fun last night? Don’t tell Brad!” Her stomach flipped, and her breath hitched as fragments of the night began surfacing like shards of broken glass piercing her consciousness.

The flash of a smile—dangerous, charming, and impossibly perfect. Warm fingers brushing her arm as they slowly undressed her. His voice, smooth and low, murmuring something she couldn’t quite recall, but it made her laugh. Then his hands on her waist, his body pressed against hers, her heart racing for reasons entirely related to the feeling she was getting in between her legs.

Her lips parted as another memory surfaced. They were in the shower, her back against the glass wall, his face inches from hers. The faint smell of his cologne—citrusy and woodsy—filled her senses. His lips on her neck. Her hands gripping his body.

Amelia gasped, shaking her head as though she could physically dislodge the memories. Her pulse quickened, panic building in her chest. No. This can’t be real. This didn’t happen. But the flashes kept coming.

They were back in the bedroom. His hand trailing down her body and stopping at her moist core. His voice asking softly, “Do you want me?”

She remembered nodding, her inhibitions drowned in the cocktail of alcohol, adrenaline, and something else she couldn’t name.

Her cheeks burned with shame, and tears pricked her eyes. What did I do? She screamed at herself, trembling as the reality of her situation sank in. This wasn’t just a bad night. This was a betrayal. Of herself, of Brad, of everything she thought she stood for.

Her knees buckled as another image flickered in her mind: her reflection in the hotel room’s gilded mirror, lips swollen from kisses, hair mussed, and the stranger’s hands tracing her bare shoulders. A shiver coursed through her.

How could she be so foolish and reckless? She couldn't even recall the face of the stranger.

Did he take advantage of her state? Or was she a willing participant in this disaster?

Her eyes darted to the desk, where a folded piece of paper sat next to the room card. With trembling fingers, she picked it up and unfolded it;

“Thanks for an unforgettable night. - AB”

A lump formed in her throat. No number, no explanation. Just an initial, as though that was supposed to mean something to her. Her jaw tightened. Who the hell is ‘AB’?

She needed to confront Claire, and she needed to do it now.