The Ritz Carlton

I moan, growing louder and louder as I rock back and forth.
It’s been months since I’ve had sex, months of holding everything in—my body tense, my mind overrun—and finally, enough is enough. My hips move on their own, desperate, chasing release.

I look down at the older man beneath me. His white hair is perfectly in place. He’s a silver fox after all, his soft skin warm beneath my hands, his eyes looking up at me with something like awe.

I’m surprised by the way my body responds to him, surprised that this man—a stranger, older, softer—can actually get me off. But the pressure builds anyway, the world narrowing to a rhythm, a moment, a sharp bright edge I thought I’d forgotten how to reach.

And then I come, loud, shaking, gripping him like he’s an anchor in a life that’s been nothing but chaos.

For those few minutes, I forget everything: the baby growing inside me, the man who betrayed me, the nights I’ve spent crying in mirrors. For those few minutes, I let myself feel something other than loss.

He walks me to my car.

We step into the lobby, and the cool air hits my flushed skin. As we move through the hallway, I notice the art on the walls—bright splashes of color, commanding brushstrokes. A few Warhols hang there, bold and unapologetic. There are other prominent names too, pieces that belong in private collections, not hotel corridors.

I slow my pace, my eyes tracing the edges of the frames. I wonder when I will be able to afford something like this.
I wonder when I’ll have a home of my own, walls waiting for treasures that speak to me.
I wonder when I will be happy again—truly happy.
When I’ll be in love with someone who doesn’t destroy me.
What my future will hold.
What kind of life I can create for my baby.

As the elevator doors close, my mind drifts to that Malibu property—the one I keep seeing in my dreams. I picture myself there, sunlight spilling across hardwood floors, doors open wide with the ocean as my backdrop. The salty breeze rolls in gently, brushing against my skin.

Inside, the rooms are alive—mannequins draped with half‑finished garments, sketches tacked up on the walls, fabric swatches scattered across long tables. It’s a designer’s dream, a studio and a sanctuary all in one. I see myself moving through the space, barefoot and unhurried, my son’s laughter echoing from another room, art and beauty everywhere I turn.

For a moment, I live there. I can smell the ocean, feel the wind, hear the calm.

And then the elevator dings. The valet hands me my keys. The vision fades, and I step back into the life I’m fighting to escape.