Page 25 of Porcelain Lies

The shower’s steady rhythm offers a chance to think, to process everything that’s happened today. Gianni’s betrayal, this unexpected encounter, the way my carefully ordered world has turned upside down in the span of hours.

The hot water cascades over my shoulders, washing away the evidence of passion but not the memory. Steam rises around me as I lean against the marble wall, letting the spray pound against my back. My thoughts swirl like the water circling the drain.

I trace my fingers over the marks he left on my skin — a slight bruise on my hip, tender spots on my neck. Each one sends a shiver through me despite the heat of the shower.

“What are you doing, Stella?” I whisper to myself.

It’s Boyana’s voice that answers:“Living, for once. Breaking free from your careful plans and perfect control.”

The water runs down my face, mingling with tears I didn’t realize I was shedding. Not for Gianni — I’m surprised to find those tears have dried up already. These are different, a release of something deeper. Years of holding myself together, maybe. Of being the responsible one, the planner, the perfect daughter.

I take my time washing my hair, conditioning it twice, using the hotel’s expensive body wash. Each methodical action helps ground me, brings me back to myself. By the time I step out and wrap myself in a plush towel, my head feels clearer.

When I open the bathroom door, the silence of the suite hits me immediately. It’s different from before — emptiersomehow. The moonlight still streams through the windows, but something has changed in the atmosphere.

Steam still clings to my skin as I pad into the empty suite. The rumpled sheets tell the story of what happened here, but he’s gone. My chest tightens as I scan the room, spotting a folded piece of hotel stationery on the bedside table.

My fingers tremble slightly as I pick it up. The handwriting is precise, masculine:

Checkout is at noon. Room is paid through tomorrow. Order whatever you want from room service.

That’s it. No name, no number, not even a simple ‘goodbye.’ The clinical nature of the note feels like a slap after the raw intimacy we just shared.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, the luxurious sheets cool against my towel-wrapped body. The ghost of his touch still lingers on my skin, but the warmth of connection is rapidly cooling in his absence.

My throat tightens as I read the note again. What was I expecting? Some declaration of feelings? A promise to meet again? We didn’t even exchange names — that was part of the unspoken agreement.

The room service menu sits on the desk, promising every luxury I could want. But my appetite has vanished. Reality crashes back with the force of a tidal wave — Gianni’s betrayal, the charity event aftermath, my reckless decision to come here with a stranger.

I crumple the note in my fist, then smooth it out again, folding it carefully before tucking it into my purse. A reminder,perhaps, of the night I stepped completely out of character and let myself be free.

The city lights twinkle beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, indifferent to my inner turmoil. In a few hours, I’ll walk out of here and return to my carefully ordered life. But right now, wrapped in nothing but a hotel towel, I let myself feel the full weight of everything that’s changed.

I settle into the massive bed, pulling the silk sheets around me. The mattress could easily fit four people, making my solitude feel that much more acute. His scent lingers on the pillows — that intoxicating mix of cedarwood and maleness. I press my face into the fabric, breathing it in one last time.

The lights of Los Angeles twinkle through the tall windows, creating silvery patterns across the luxurious room. Everything screams wealth — from the marble bathroom to the crystal decanter set on the wet bar. It’s the kind of place Gianni would have chosen.

Don’t think about him.

I roll onto my back, staring at the coffered ceiling. My body aches in the most delicious ways, reminding me of every passionate moment. My skin still tingles where his stubble scraped against my neck, where his fingers gripped my hips.

The champagne and vodka from earlier make my head pleasantly fuzzy. Combined with post-orgasmic exhaustion, sleep tugs at the edges of my consciousness despite my racing thoughts. I try to focus on the smooth slide of silk against my skin instead of analyzing every moment of this surreal evening.

A car horn blares somewhere on the street below. I burrow deeper into the covers, cocooning myself in soft fabric thatprobably costs more than my monthly rent. The pillow still holds the indent from where his head rested.

My eyelids grow heavy as fatigue wins out over my whirling mind. The last thing I register is the faint trace of his cologne surrounding me as I drift toward sleep.

Chapter Eight

Stella

My fingers fumble with the hotel keycard as I check the time — 8:47 am.

Plenty of time to spare before checkout. But in spite of the opulence, I can’t find it in myself to linger. The plush carpet muffles my unsteady steps toward the elevator, last night’s vodka still clouding my thoughts.

“Good morning, Miss,” The receptionist’s professional smile makes me wonder if she can read the shame written across my face. “I hope you enjoyed your stay.”

I manage a weak nod, sliding the keycard across the polished desk. The sooner I’m out of here, the better.

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