Chapter 3 Chapter 3: The Night (Doris Vale POV)

The elevator doors slide shut, and his lips are on my neck, hot and urgent. My hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. I taste whiskey on his breath, feel the rough scrape of his stubble against my skin. My pulse races, drowning out the hum of the elevator. His hands slide down my back, fingers digging into my hips, and I press myself against him, desperate to feel something, anything, other than the weight of what I’ve done.

The doors open with a ding, and we stumble into the hallway, his arm around my waist. I fumble for my keycard, but he’s faster, pulling one from his pocket. “My room’s closer,” he mutters, his voice low and rough.

“Lead the way,” I say, my lips brushing his ear.

His room is a blur of dim lights and crisp sheets. The door clicks shut, and we’re on each other, clothes hitting the floor in a frantic pile. His shirt, my dress, his belt—gone in seconds. His hands are everywhere, strong and sure, and I match his intensity, nails raking down his back. It’s not gentle; it’s raw like we’re trying to burn away the pain that brought us here. My breath comes in gasps, his name—whatever it is—lost in the heat of it all. I don’t care. I just want to forget.

We collapse onto the bed, tangled and breathless, skin slick with sweat. His weight pins me down, and I arch into him, chasing the oblivion he’s offering. It’s not love, not even close, but it’s real—two broken people clawing at something alive. The world narrows to this: his hands, my moans, the creak of the bedframe. For a moment, Sarah’s scream fades, the check in my purse doesn’t exist, and I’m not the woman who paid for blood.

After, we lie there, panting, the air thick with the scent of sex and regret. He rolls off me, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the nightstand. He lights one, the flame flickering in the dark, and offers it to me.

I take it, inhaling deep, the smoke curling in my lungs. “Didn’t peg you for a smoker,” I say, passing it back.

He chuckles, low and rough, taking a drag. “Only when I’m trying to outrun something.”

“Does it work?” I ask, propping myself on one elbow.

He exhales, smoke curling toward the ceiling. “Not really. You?”

“Nope.” I grab the cigarette again, our fingers brushing. “But it’s better than thinking.”

He nods, his eyes distant. “What are we running from, you think?”

I hesitate, the smoke burning my throat. “I lost someone,” I say finally. “My sister. She was… everything. And now I’m just… angry. All the time.”

He takes the cigarette back, his fingers lingering on mine. “I get that. I fucked up once. Big time. Someone died because of me. I see her face every time I close my eyes.”

I swallow hard, my chest tightening. “Do you ever stop seeing it?”

He shakes his head, staring at the ceiling. “No. But nights like this… they help. For a little while.”

I nod, passing the cigarette back. “Yeah. For a little while.”

We smoke in silence, the cigarette glowing red in the dark. The city hums outside, neon lights seeping through the curtains. He stubs out the butt in an ashtray, then lights another, offering it to me. I take it, our hands brushing again, and something shifts—a crack in the armor we’re both wearing.

“You ever think about starting over?” I ask, my voice softer now. “Just… leaving it all behind?”

He laughs, bitter. “Every damn day. But it’s not that easy. You can’t outrun yourself.”

I nod, exhaling smoke. “I tried. Went to London for years. Thought distance would fix it. But it’s still here.” I tap my chest, right over my heart.

He looks at me. “What was her name? Your sister?”

I hesitate, my throat tight. “Can't say,” I say finally.

He nods with understanding. “Mine was… a kid. Young woman, really. Caught in the wrong place, wrong time. Because I thought I knew better.”

I pass the cigarette back, our fingers lingering. “You don’t strike me as the reckless type.”

He smirks, but it’s hollow. “You’d be surprised. I was cocky once. Thought I was untouchable. Paid for it in blood.”

I lean closer, the sheets slipping down my shoulder. “And now?”

“Now?” He takes a drag, his eyes locked on mine. “Now I’m just trying to keep going.”

We’re quiet again, the cigarette passing between us like a lifeline. I tell him about Sarah’s laugh, how she’d make me tea when I was sick. He tells me about the nights he can’t sleep, the guilt that’s carved into him. It’s not everything, but it’s enough—truths we don’t tell anyone else, shared in the dark with a stranger.

The cigarette burns out, and we lie there, side by side, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable. His hand rests on my hip, warm and steady, and I let it stay. For a moment, I’m not the woman who hired a killer. I’m just here, alive, with him.

Dawn creeps in, gray light seeping through the curtains. The magic of the night fades, replaced by a raw, exposed feeling. I sit up, the sheets pooling around me, and reach for my clothes. He watches, silent, as I slip into my dress, my movements slow, deliberate.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough with sleep.

I nod, zipping up my dress. “Yeah. You?”

He sits up, rubbing his face. “Been better. Been worse.”

I laugh softly, stepping into my heels. The room feels smaller now, the air heavier. I grab my purse, my fingers brushing the envelope inside. The weight of it slams back, and I swallow hard, pushing it down.

He pulls on his jeans, his movements sluggish. “This… doesn’t have to be anything, you know.”

“I know,” I say, meeting his eyes. “It’s better that way.”

He nods, buttoning his shirt. The silence stretches, awkward now, the intimacy of the night unraveling in the cold light of morning. I head for the door, my hand on the knob, and pause. I turn back, finding his eyes one last time.

“Thank you for tonight, stranger,” I say, my voice soft but steady.

He smiles, a little sad, a little real. “Take care of yourself.”

I nod, stepping into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind me, and I don’t look back. The elevator ride is quiet, my reflection staring back in the polished walls. He’s gone, and I’ll never see him again. But his touch, his words, the way he saw me—they’re burned into me, a memory I’ll carry with the guilt.