Chapter 3 A Name Without a Face

The silk sheets whispered against Clara's skin as she stirred, the unfamiliar softness frightening her, she was awake before the light even touched her face.

Her eyes blinked open slowly.

This wasn't her room.

The ceiling was too high. The walls are too sleek, shadowed in pale morning light leaking around heavy blackout curtains. The scent of leather, cologne, and something more expensive than anything she'd ever owned lingered thick in the air.

She sat up. The sheet fell to her waist.

She was naked.

Reality struck in slow, stabbing fragments.

The elevator. The penthouse. The man. The heat of his mouth on her collarbone. Her dress slid off her body like liquid. Her own voice whispering, "Just for tonight. Just let me forget."

And him tall, dark-eyed, unreadable. Intoxicating.

He hadn't touched her like a stranger.

He'd touched her like she meant something.

And now he is gone.

Clara's stomach twisted. She blinked against the burn behind her eyes and turned her head. The spot where he had been was cold untouched, as if he'd never been there at all.

But there was something on the nightstand.

A folded piece of ivory-thick paper. And under it, a rectangular piece of glossy cardstock.

Her heart started to race.

She reached for it.

A check.

Twenty thousand dollars.

Signed with two simple, printed initials in elegant, slanted ink: N.W.

The room blurred for a second. Her breath caught in her throat.

Twenty thousand.

Like she was worth that much.

Or exactly that much.

Not a name. No goodbye. Just money.

A tip.

Her fingers trembled as she let the check flutter back to the nightstand.

Suddenly, the day felt colder. Sharper. Her heart ached in places that didn't make sense because it wasn't supposed to mean anything. She'd told herself that. Again and again.

Just one night.

And yet... she hadn't expected to feel disposable. Like a transaction.

She rose from the bed, slowly wrapping the silk sheet around her. Her clothes were neatly folded at the foot of the bed. A pair of black stilettos she barely remembered kicking off waited beside them.

Her body still bore the memory of his touch, the bruised heat of kisses down her spine, the way he'd said nothing after just holding her until she drifted into sleep.

And now this.

She dressed in silence. Every breath felt heavier. Her head throbbed from the wine, but it was nothing compared to the ache blooming behind her ribs.

The elevator took her down alone.

The doorman didn't say a word, just offered a nod as she stepped onto the early morning street, heels clicking against the pavement. The city looked too bright. Too loud. Too real.

By the time she reached her tiny apartment, her hands were shaking.

Elena was curled on the couch, coffee in hand, still in her pajamas. She looked up, startled. "Clara?"

Clara didn't speak.

She just walked into the room, held out the check, and waited.

Elena read it. Her eyes widened. "Holy-Clara. Is this real?"

Clara nodded, her throat tight. "I don't want it."

"Are you kidding me? That's twenty grand."

"It feels disgusting."

Elena frowned, her voice softer now. "Was he awful?"

Clara sat slowly, curling her knees to her chest. "No. That's the worst part."

Elena waited.

"He was... different. Gentle. He didn't treat me like a hookup. Not last night. But this" She gestured to the check. "He left this like I was a paid fantasy. Like I meant nothing."

Silence settled over them like ash.

After a moment, Elena whispered, "Did he tell you his name?"

"No. He just... vanished." Clara let out a dry, humorless laugh. "God, I didn't even get a last name. Just N.W."

Elena's eyes narrowed slowly. "Wait... Wait a second."

"What?"

"N.W.?"

Elena reached for her phone. Typed something. Her eyes scanned the screen, fingers moving quickly. "Clara. What if that wasn't just some guy?"