Page 12 of Legacy
This was supposed to be simple.
Fun.Easy.
A distraction.
But the longer we talk, the more I see myself in her; in the longing in her voice, in the frustration she doesn’t speak out loud. We’re both trapped by legacy. Both performing roles we didn’t choose.
And somehow, she gets it. She gets me.
She reaches for her drink and her fingers graze mine, a fleeting touch, but it sparks like a live wire. More electric than anything I’ve felt in a long time. She doesn’t even notice what she’s done, just keeps talking, her voice lilting, her eyes wide with wonder as she tells me about her favorite books, her fear of failing, her dream of arguing in court one day.
And I’m just… listening.
Entranced.
I watch the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking, the way she twirls her hair around her finger when she’s nervous. And I can’t explain it, but I don’t want this night to end.
What started as a hunt for a warm body has turned into something far more dangerous.
A mirror. A kindred spirit. Someone who sees past the surface, who might, without even knowing it, be carving open parts of me I thought I’d buried long ago.
And that scares the hell out of me.
But I can’t look away.
***
I wake up on the cold, unforgiving hardwood floor, head pounding like I’ve taken a bat to the skull. The room spins slightly as I push myself up, disoriented, groggy.
And then it hits me.
She’s gone.
The sofa is empty. No trace of her curls, her laugh, those soft brown eyes. Just the lingering whisper of her perfume in the air; sweet, soft,maddening. The kind that clings to your clothes and your goddamn thoughts.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.
I search the loft like an idiot, like maybe she’s hiding behind a wall or in the bathroom, but I already know better. Scarlet slipped out, clean and quiet.
I reach for my phone on the cluttered coffee table, nearly knocking over the empty wine glasses. No number. No last name. No clue who she really is.
Only the memory of her lips and the impossible softness of her voice.
I hover over Nico’s name, thumb just above the screen. He could find her in minutes. I could start a citywide search—hell, I’ve done it for less.
But then the phone vibrates.
Incoming text.
I stare, frowning, until I see the name on the screen.
Scarlet.
My eyes widen. That sneaky little minx. She must’ve swiped my phone sometime last night, added her number without me noticing. My irritation twists into something else hot, electric, impressed.
A simple message:
‘I had fun last night’
