Velvet and Smoke

The first time I saw him, he was standing in the shadows behind a velvet curtain, smoke curling from his lips like a promise whispered too close.

I should’ve walked away.

But I didn’t have a choice.

The Crimson Room was a haven for the lonely and the dangerous. A place where the rich went to lose themselves in low lights and jazz. And me? I was the voice behind the piano. A songbird in satin.

My name wasn’t really Lila Rose, but the club gave me that one, and it suited me well enough.

I knew how to sell a fantasy—sweet notes wrapped around heartbreak and heat. I learned not to look too long at anyone, not to answer the wrong compliments, and never, ever to get curious about the men who watched me from the dark.

But then he walked in.

He didn’t sit like the others. He stood just beyond the chandelier’s reach, motionless, like he didn’t belong to the room but owned it anyway. His suit was black. His eyes unreadable—stormy, like the ocean before it pulls you under.

He watched my entire set.

When I stepped off stage, Sylvia caught my arm.

“Don’t,” she whispered, glancing toward the curtain. “That one’s not here for the music.”

“You know him?”

“No one really does. Rumors—Eastern money, maybe syndicate. The kind of man Delano calls ‘sir.’ He asked for you.”

My stomach turned. “Asked?”

“Name on his lips before the last verse. Delano wants you in Suite Eight.”

I looked toward the shadows.

He was already gone.

“Do I have a choice?” I murmured.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

Suite Eight smelled like money and secrets. Velvet drapes. A skyline view. A silence that swallowed every sound except your own breath.

He stood at the window, back to me.

“You sing beautifully,” he said.

I stayed near the door. “Thank you.”

He turned. Close now. Closer than I’d realized.

“I’m called Alek.”

His voice was smooth, but something underneath it felt sharp—like the edge of a knife dulled from use.

“I’m Lila.”

He studied me, like he wanted to ask if that was my real name, but decided it didn’t matter.

“You’re the first thing in this place that feels honest,” he said.

“Then you haven’t looked too closely.”

He smiled. Not polite. Not forced. Real. A flicker of warmth through something colder.

“You don’t belong here.”

“I hear that a lot.”

“It doesn’t make it less true.”

He poured two glasses of something dark and dangerous, handed one to me.

That night, he didn’t ask for anything.

He just listened.

And then he left.

He came back the next night. And the next.

Always alone.

Always to see me.

He asked quiet questions. Let the silences stretch. Never pushed. Never touched.

And that’s what did it.

He became the thing I waited for—the pause in the noise, the still point in a world built to spin.

One night, I asked, “Why me?”

He tilted his head, like the question surprised him. “Because when you sing, the world goes quiet.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

He stepped closer.

“When you sing, I forget everything I’ve done.”

The night it all changed, the city was slick with rain, the kind that turned everything ghostlike. My heels echoed down the marble hallway louder than I liked.

He looked different. Not colder, exactly. Just… resolved.

“I can take you out of here,” he said.

I blinked. “What?”

“Tonight. If you want. No strings. No debts.”

“Why now?”

“Because the walls are closing in. And I’d rather you hate me for pulling you out than regret that I left you behind.”

I laughed. Dry. Unsure. “And what would I owe you for that?”

He didn’t flinch. “Nothing. Just the truth. Whatever piece of it you’re still holding.”

I looked around the suite. At the velvet. At the silence. At him.

And for the first time in a long time, I told the truth.

“I didn’t have a choice,” I said.

I took his hand.

And I didn’t look back.

The hotel he brought me to was high above the city. Soft sheets. No past in its walls. No ghosts.

He didn’t touch me that first night. Just left wine. Sat nearby. Kept his distance like he didn’t trust himself to close it.

By the third night, I couldn’t take it anymore.

I kissed him.

Slow, searching. Then sharp, greedy. His mouth claimed me like he was starving. His hands knew the shape of hunger, but he moved like he didn’t want to scare it away.

Every kiss tasted like things we weren’t saying.

“Tell me this is real,” I whispered against his skin.

“It’s the only thing that is,” he said.

We didn’t sleep much.

But we dreamed.

I woke to voices in the hallway. Low. Tense.

Foreign words. One I understood.

Delano.

I moved to the door. Barefoot. Heart hammering.

“Tonight… clean. No mess.”

I turned.

Alek was already watching me.

“How much did you hear?” he asked softly.

“Enough.”

He didn’t lie. Didn’t explain.

“You’re not just a man in a tailored suit,” I said.

“No. I’m not.”

“You used me to get close.”

“I didn’t plan for you.”

“But you didn’t stop.”

He stepped toward me. Careful. Quiet.

“I tried to keep you clear of it.”

“Was any of it real?”

He reached for my hand. Didn’t pull. Just held it there.

“You’re the only real thing I’ve touched in years.”

I wanted to believe him.

But I left before dawn.

No note.

Just disappeared.

Two days later, The Crimson Room went up in smoke.

Delano vanished.

So did Alek.

Now I live by the sea.

I sing in a quiet lounge where the drinks are cheap and the promises cheaper. The stage is smaller, but my voice is mine again.

I tell myself I’m starting over.

But some nights, I still dream of velvet and smoke. Of eyes that saw me. Hands that didn’t ask. Kisses that told the truth.

And when someone asks why I left the city behind—why I ran from a place that made me feel alive—I just smile.

And say the only thing that’s ever been true.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

[End]