The first time she saw him, he was standing alone at the end of the gallery, under the dim light of a flickering chandelier. A glass of red wine dangled from his fingertips like an afterthought. The way he gazed at the painting—a swirl of crimson and black chaos—made her stop.
Zara had never been to this part of the city before. The invitation arrived anonymously, sealed in an envelope that smelled faintly of lavender and firewood. The ink was handwritten, slanted and bold:
“For your eyes only. Midnight. The Orchid Room.”
And here she was, in a place that didn’t exist on any map, wearing a dress she could barely afford. It clung to her like a second skin, black velvet tracing every curve. The walls around her were dark with gold accents, and there was no sign, no name. Just a door and a man with silver eyes.
She didn’t know why she walked toward him—only that her feet moved without permission.
“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice velvet over steel. Not looking at her, still watching the painting.
“It’s...disturbing,” she replied.
He turned. His gaze met hers and pinned her where she stood.
“That’s why I like it.”
She swallowed. Something in his eyes unsettled her. Not danger—something deeper. Hunger, maybe. Longing.
“Why did you invite me?” she asked.
He smiled, slow and secretive. “I didn’t.”
Her brow furrowed. “Then—”
“But I’m glad you came,” he said, stepping closer. “You don’t belong here. Not like the others.”
She didn’t know what he meant by others, but suddenly, the silence in the room felt heavy, almost watchful. There were others—figures dressed in sharp tuxedos and glittering gowns—but they drifted through the gallery like ghosts, never touching, never speaking.
“I’m Damon,” he said. “And this…” He gestured to the air around them. “Is a place where secrets breathe.”
Her lips parted, unsure whether to be afraid or intrigued.
“And what secret are you hiding, Zara?”
She hadn't told him her name. Her pulse quickened.
“I—I don’t have secrets,” she lied.
He laughed, low and intimate. “Everyone does.”
She turned, suddenly overwhelmed. But he caught her wrist—not roughly, just enough to still her. His fingers were warm, calloused.
“Come with me.”
He didn’t wait for a yes. She followed.
They passed a velvet curtain, down a narrow corridor lit with amber lanterns. At the end, a door carved with orchids opened silently.
Inside, everything was red. Silk curtains, a velvet chaise, the faint aroma of roses and smoke. Music drifted from somewhere—old, haunting, like a waltz forgotten by time.
He shut the door.
“What is this place?” she whispered.
“A room for truths.”
He stepped behind her. His fingers brushed the zipper of her dress. She flinched.
“You can say no,” he said. “But if you stay, you give me everything.”
She turned to face him. Her breath trembled. “Why me?”
His hand came to her cheek, slow. “Because you want to disappear. Because you ache to be seen and touched and ruined. Just once.”
His words cracked something in her. She couldn’t answer.
He kissed her.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.
It was devouring.
His hands roamed her back, her hips, pulling her into him as if he could mold her to his skin. Her dress fell in a whisper, and she didn’t stop him.
She should’ve stopped him.
But her body—God, her body had already made the decision.
She let go.
And it was like falling.
The night blurred into shadows and breathless moans, into silk sheets that tangled around her thighs, into hands that traced her until she forgot her name. He kissed like he was memorizing her, worshipping her, destroying her. Every inch of her burned under his touch.
When she finally opened her eyes again, the room was darker. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, shirtless, silent. A cigarette glowed faintly between his fingers, though she never saw him light it.
“Is this real?” she murmured.
He didn’t answer.
“What do you want from me?”
He turned. The look in his eyes chilled her.
“Everything,” he said again. “And I already have it.”
She sat up, pulling the sheet around her. “What do you mean?”
He reached into the nightstand drawer and placed something on the bed.
A photograph.
Her. From earlier tonight.
Another. Of her apartment. Her mother’s house. Her bedroom.
“How did you—”
“I’ve been watching you,” he said. “Not for long. But long enough.”
She backed away. “Why?”
He leaned in. His voice was almost gentle. “Because you remind me of someone. Someone I couldn’t save.”
Her voice shook. “You think you’re saving me?”
“No,” he said. “I think I’m giving you the choice she never had.”
A key.
He placed it in her hand.
“One door leads out,” he said. “One door leads deeper. You’ll know which is which.”
She stared at him. The orchid-shaped handle on the red door shimmered in the faint light.
She didn’t know why she rose.
Didn’t know why she walked barefoot to the door.
But she opened it.
And smiled.
What she found on the other side?
That’s a secret only the Orchid Room knows
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