Chapter 7 First Night
JEREMY
I woke with my face pressed against cold wood and a headache that felt like someone was driving nails into my skull.
"Fuck," I muttered, pushing myself upright.
The room spun briefly before settling. Room three at Crimson. Right.
The bottle of whisky on the table was nearly empty. My glass had tipped over, leaving a wet stain on the dark wood.
How much had I drunk?
Memory came back in fragments. The meeting with my uncle. Coming here to escape. Ordering a private room because Marco had insisted I needed company.
A girl. There'd been a girl.
I touched my face and felt the slight tenderness on my cheek.
She'd slapped me.
Why had she—
Blind.
The word emerged from the haze of alcohol, bringing back all the memories associated with it.
The girl from the alley. The one I'd saved four days ago.
She'd been here. She had been in this room. And I'd...
I'd kissed her.
"Christo," I breathed, running my hands through my hair.
I'd kissed her without permission. Drunk and stupid and not thinking. And she'd slapped me and—
And then what? I'd passed out?
Shame crawled through my Shame crawled through my stomach, mixing with the nausea caused by too much whisky.
She was blind. Working at Crimson. In the private rooms, men paid for services that included more than just conversation.
How desperate did someone have to be to end up here?
I stood slowly, testing my balance. My suit was wrinkled, my mouth tasted like regret, and I'd just assaulted an employee.
No—not an employee. The girl I'd saved.
I needed to fix this. Apologise. Make sure she was okay.
But a small, cynical voice in the back of my mind whispered, 'Why do you care?' You don't even know her name.
Except I did. She had mentioned her name during her introduction.
Amelia.
I grabbed my jacket and headed for the door.
The main bar was still busy despite the late hour. I scanned the room, looking for her, but saw only the regular girls. One girl, who shot me a hopeful smile, was named Jade, I think. She'd been trying to get my attention for months.
I ignored her and found Marco at the bar.
"The girl you sent to my room," I said without preamble. "Amelia. Where is she?"
Marco raised an eyebrow. "Why? Did She do something wrong?"
"No. I just... I need to talk to her."
"She went upstairs hours ago. You were passed out for a while, Santoro. It's past two in the morning."
Hours. I had been unconscious for hours, and I wondered what she had done during that time. Left? Of course she'd left.
"Is she okay?" I asked.
Marco studied me with too-knowing eyes. "Why wouldn't she be?"
I had been drunk and overly touchy, which forced her to defend herself.
"Just answer the question." I shouted at him.
"She's fine. She is currently in her room. Sleeping, probably. You want me to wake her?"
"No." The word came out too fast. "No, just... make sure she's okay. Make sure she has everything she needs."
"Planning to be a regular?" Marco asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Maybe. I don't know. Just take care of her." I said, turning towards the door.
I left before he could ask any more questions.
The night air hit me as I stepped outside, cold and sobering. My driver was waiting at the curb, the car's engine idling.
I slid into the back seat and closed my eyes.
I'd saved her from a gang war only to abandon her in a world that was just as dangerous.
And now she was sleeping upstairs in that bar, probably terrified of what tomorrow would bring.
Probably terrified of me.
I should forget about her. Should focus on family business and proving myself to my father and uncle.
I need to let go of the memories of how she felt in my arms. The way she'd smelt like innocence in a world full of corruption.
The way she'd slapped me like she wasn't afraid of anything.
"Home, Mr Santoro?" my driver asked.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "Home."
But as we pulled away from Crimson, I knew I'd be back.
I had to be.
Because something about that blind girl had gotten under my skin.
And I needed to know why.
AMELIA
I was dreaming.
In the dream, I could see. Not clearly—everything was soft and blurred around the edges—but I could make out shapes. Colours.
I was standing in a grand hallway. Marble floors. High ceilings. Everything white and gold and impossibly beautiful.
Someone was walking toward me. A man. Tall. Broad-shouldered.
His face was in shadow, but I knew—somehow, I knew—that he was dangerous.
"You shouldn't be here," he said, his voice echoing off the walls.
"I don't know where here is," I replied.
He moved closer. He moved close enough that I could almost see his features. Dark hair. Strong jaw. His eyes were filled with an abundance of secrets.
"This is my world," he said. "And it will destroy you."
"Then let me leave," I said.
He replied, "I can't."
I asked, "Why not?"
He reached out, his hand hovering near my face but not quite touching.
"Because," he whispered, "I think you were always meant to be here."
I woke with a start, my heart racing.
The room was dark—but then, it always was. I reached out and felt the wall beside my bed. Solid. Real.
It was just a dream.
But something had woken me. A sound? A feeling?
I lay there, listening.
The bar was quieter now. Most of the noise had stopped. The only sound left was the occasional creak. And the sound of a building settling could be heard. Measured. Stopping outside my door.
There was then a prolonged silence.
Then they moved on, fading down the corridor.
I pulled the blanket tighter around me, suddenly feeling cold.
Someone had been standing outside my room.
Watching.
Waiting.
But for what?