Adrian
I told myself I wouldn’t go back. I told myself the night with her was a mistake born of drunken desperation, guilt, loneliness, and the need to feel something—anything—that wasn’t the dull ache of my marriage crumbling beneath my hands. But telling myself a thing and doing it were different realities entirely.
And by the second night after the encounter, those memories no longer haunted me; they consumed me.
I found myself walking toward the hotel again, my steps neither hesitant nor rushed, but pulled by a force that felt older than desire and stronger than intention.
The guards at the door didn’t question me this time—familiarity had etched its shape on my presence. When I descended the steps and entered the club’s dim underworld, the air hit me like a drug—thick, warm, vibrating with music that pulsed through my blood.
I went straight to the bar, not for a drink, but for answers.
The bartender—a man with dark hair slicked back, tattoos running down both arms—raised a curious brow. “Back again so soon?” he asked, wiping down a glass.
“I’m looking for someone,” I said, leaning forward. “A woman.”
His smirk widened. “You’ll have to be more specific than that. Half the city’s sins walk through those doors every night.”
My jaw clenched. “She was masked. Very short hair. Black lace. We were together in one of the private rooms.”
He paused, interest flickering in his eyes. “Ah. One of the masked ones.”
“Do you know her name?”
“No one here uses real names.”
“Then what shift is she on?” I pressed, voice low, sharp with frustration. “When does she work?”
He shrugged. “That depends. Some come for a night or two and vanish. Some only show up by request. She might be new. Might be experienced. Hard to know.”
I leaned closer, voice tightening. “I need to find her.”
“And I’m telling you,” he said calmly, “you might not.”
The words hit me harder than I expected. A sudden pressure built behind my ribs, something like panic—an emotion I couldn’t afford. I stared at him, searching for even a hint of recognition, a memory in his eyes that told me he knew who she was. But he only shook his head and moved to serve another customer.
So I tried elsewhere.
A woman near the entrance—a hostess wearing a deep red dress—offered me a coy smile as I approached. “Looking for company tonight?”
“No,” I said, too fast, too blunt. “I’m looking for her.”
The smile faded into curiosity. “Her?”
“A masked woman,” I explained, lowering my voice. “Lace mask. Short wig. I… I need to see her again.”
She touched my arm lightly, attempting a soothing tone. “We don’t track the masked ones closely. Many prefer to stay anonymous, even to us.”
“Someone must know,” I insisted. “She didn’t just appear out of thin air.”
The hostess studied me with a mixture of amusement and pity. “Men become obsessed with mystery here more often than you’d think. It’s part of the appeal.”
“I’m not obsessed,” I snapped before realizing the lie vibrated between us with humiliating clarity.
She raised a brow gently. “Aren’t you?”
I walked away before she could say anything else.
But the club swallowed me again—lights flickering, bodies intertwined in shadow, laughter echoing from curtained alcoves. I moved through the crowd, scanning every masked face, hoping—no, praying—to find her again. Every time I saw black lace in the corner of my eye, my heart lunged forward before crashing in disappointment.
After an hour of searching, frustration clawed at my throat. I stopped in the middle of the main room, breathing hard, ignoring the enticing hands that brushed my arm, the whispered offers that meant nothing to me now. I didn’t want anyone else. I wanted her. The faceless woman who had made my blood ignite, who had touched me with trembling certainty, whose very anonymity had freed something inside me I didn’t know still existed.
And I despised myself for needing it.
When I finally left—empty-handed, hollow, and twice as tormented—I stepped into the cold night air with lungs tight enough to fracture. My hands shook. My thoughts spiraled.
The rational part of me tried to reason with my fractured mind, insisting this was lust twisted into obsession, a fantasy born from guilt and emotional starvation. But another part of me—the darker, wounded one—insisted she had awakened something vital.
Something I hadn’t felt in years.
When I returned home that night, the house seemed too quiet. Too still. I moved through the dim hallways like a ghost, my footsteps soft against the marble. When I stepped into the dining room, I found Serafina sitting alone, finishing a cup of tea while reviewing council notes.
She looked stunning, composed, elegant—like a woman carved from determination and resilience. My wife. My anchor.
Except I didn’t feel anchored anymore. I felt unmoored.
“Adrian,” she said softly, lifting her head. “You’re home late.”
My throat tightened. “Meetings ran long.”
Her eyes narrowed just slightly—so subtle anyone else would have missed it. “Again?”
I nodded stiffly, unable to meet her gaze for more than a second. The guilt pressed into my ribs, wedging itself between us. Because if she looked at me for too long—if she studied me with the perceptive sharpness she was known for—I feared she would see everything I was hiding.
She set her papers aside, folding her hands over the table. “Come sit with me. Eat something.”
I hesitated—but obeyed. Sitting across from her felt dangerous, like exposing a wound still bleeding beneath the surface. She reached out gently, her fingers brushing my wrist. “You look exhausted,” she said with concern thickening her tone. “Is something wrong? You’re so distant lately.”
The touch ignited panic.
Not disgust.
Not avoidance.
Fear.
Because her hand on my skin made the truth burn too close to the surface. Her touch was familiar, grounding—but it also reminded me of the woman in the mask. The contrast was too stark, too jarring, too intimate in a way I could not handle without breaking.
I flinched.
It was small. Barely perceptible. But Serafina felt it. Her hand froze, her brows dipping in confusion, maybe hurt.
“Adrian?” she whispered. “Did I do something?”
My chest tightened painfully. “No. No, of course not. I’m just… tired.”
The lie tasted like poison.
Serafina studied me quietly, the worry in her eyes deepening, though she said nothing more. She withdrew her hand slowly, gracefully, as though giving me space instead of retreating from the fracture she sensed.
That kindness wounded me more deeply than anger ever could have.
Because as she watched me with gentle patience, all I could think about was the faceless woman who had made me feel alive in ways I couldn’t explain—who pulled at me from the shadows of my mind even as my wife sat across from me offering understanding I didn’t deserve.
And I hated myself.
Yet underneath the hatred…
The craving did not fade.
It grew.