SERRA
The throbbing in my head was the first thing I noticed as I reluctantly opened my eyes. I found myself lying on a massive bed, covered in soft pillows and silky sheets that made it feel all fancy. The room was big, filled with nice furniture and stylish decorations, giving off this vibe like I was in a really nice hotel. It was all pretty luxurious and comfy. I felt confused as I looked around, realizing I couldn't remember how I ended up in this fancy place.
A blanket sort of covered me, and a quick check told me I had nothing beneath it. Panic hit me as I saw my clothes scattered on the floor. How did I get here, and why was I undressed?
My mind raced, trying to put together the events that brought me to this confusing moment. The last thing I clearly remembered was a heartbreak, my husband rejecting me still echoing in my ears. I tried to find comfort in alcohol, drowning my sorrows in some dimly lit bar. The memories from last night were kinda fuzzy, a mix of emotions and faces.
The creak of a door snapped me out of my chaotic thoughts, and my heart raced. Footsteps got closer, and I held my breath as the bathroom door opened. I watched as a guy stepped out–tall, handsome, with messy hair that looked like he just showered. He moved gracefully, no shirt on, only wearing some black pants.
His deep blue eyes locked onto mine, and my heart skipped a beat. He had this confident vibe, and there was this intense look in his eyes that I couldn't ignore. At that moment, time felt like it stood still, and I realized how exposed I was–under a blanket, all naked, with a stranger in this fancy place.
He glanced at me for a moment before grabbing a clean white shirt from a chair. He put it on like it was nothing, buttoning up as if he did it in his sleep. The room got super quiet until he finally spoke in this flat, unemotional tone, "Good job last night."
His words hit me hard, and the memories of the night before rushed back, clear as day. Regret twisted my stomach as I remembered the blurry encounters and the choice I made in my drunken state. It was all so obvious now–I ended up in a random guy's hotel room, having an intimate night with someone I barely knew.
My cheeks were on fire with embarrassment as I remembered the details–his touch, the taste of his kisses, the intense connection we had. It played over and over in my mind, a replay of a night I wished never happened. How did I let myself be so reckless?
The guy kept looking at me, and I could feel his intense stare. Was he enjoying my discomfort, or did he regret what happened too? I avoided meeting his eyes, staring at some random point in the room like it had all the answers to my messed-up feelings.
I sighed heavily, rubbing my forehead, feeling the dull ache that matched the guilt inside me. How did I let things get so out of hand?
He moved closer to the bed, and my eyes followed him as he put a stack of dollar bills on the edge. The sheer amount of money astounded me; I had never seen such a substantial sum in my entire life. But I felt a surge of anger. Was he suggesting I'm some kind of transaction?
Without saying anything, I frowned, silently protesting. He broke the awkward silence, explaining the meaning behind the gesture. "It's for you. Take it and leave right now."
I couldn't believe the nerve. I glared at him, but he didn't seem bothered. The room now felt like a cage of humiliation.
"Why?" he asked, like he was genuinely curious. "Isn't it enough?"
I glared at him, a mix of anger and wounded pride. "I'm not some prostitute," I snapped, the words sharp and clear.
He shrugged, not caring. "Does it matter? Take it and go. We both got what we wanted."
His words hurt, and I couldn't believe I had become just a transaction to him. The money lay there like an insult, a reminder of a night that blurred the lines between loneliness and desperation.
Clutching the blanket tight around me, I reached for the pile of bills on the edge of the bed. It felt strange in my trembling fingers. As I stared at the money, despair and bitterness overwhelmed me. I lost everything–my husband's love, my home, my place in the pack. Now, I was alone, trying to navigate a world that suddenly felt more harsh and unforgiving than ever. My life had turned into a chaotic mess, and this money seemed to mock the weight of everything I lost.
With a resigned exhale, I mustered the strength to speak up. "If you want to pay me," I said with surprising fierceness, even surprising myself, "give me a job. I don't need your pity money."
I was thinking, looking at this guy, he's probably loaded. Instead of grabbing the cash and lowering myself even further, I figured I could ask for a job. I refused to let a few bills determine my value.
The man looked at me with a bemused expression, and I took a moment to think about what I just said. Where did that come from? Was it just desperation, an instinct to claw my way out of this mess? Maybe. Survival had a way of bringing out unexpected bravery.
He raised his eyebrows, silently acknowledging my unexpected defiance. The room was dead silent, only the muffled sounds of the busy city outside. His scrutiny weighed on me, but I refused to back down. I tossed the money aside, refusing to be bought. The man, seemingly unbothered, watched my every move.
The man laughed mockingly at my defiance. "You're crazy, you know that?" he sneered, dismissing my words with a casual wave. But I didn't care. Crazy, broken, lost–call me whatever you want; it couldn't be worse than what I had already been through.
He scrutinized me again, and I met his assessing eyes with determination. "You're not worth the trouble," he said, like he was evaluating some defective item. "But I have an idea."
I raised an eyebrow, curious despite my guarded stance. His proposition hung there, loaded with unspoken meanings. What could he want from someone like me?
"Right, you'll become my maid."