Page 18 of Claimed By the Pakhan

Cars splash through puddles, sending the dirty water my way. By the time I make it into the hotel lobby, I’m drenched through my clothes, dripping rainwater onto a very nice marble floor.

The doormen, wearing an ironed three-piece suit, greets me with a cordial smile. “Do you have a room booked?” He asks, paying close attention to my outfit, which is questionable at the best of times.

I drop my hood, entering through reception. “Yes.”

Soft jazz music plays softly through the hotel lobby, a stark contrast to the chaos happening outside.

Guests lounging in the lobby look my way, probably wondering what business a drowned rat has being here.

I unzip my coat, sling it over my shoulder and head to the front, checking into my room.

“Would you like a towel, miss?” asks the concierge, walking toward reception to investigate the fuss. “You’re very wet.”

State the fucking obvious.

“Are their towels in my room?”

“Yes,” answers the receptionist. “You will find a set of hand and bath towels in the bathroom cabinet.”

“Then I’m good, thanks,” I say to the concierge, looking away, hoping he gets the message to leave me alone. I came here to fucking sleep, not to be a jester for the rich.

“Okay,” says the receptionist. “The booking is all paid for. You’re staying for one night in room?—”

“Can I increase the duration of my stay? I may need a few more nights to figure some things out.”

The receptionist gives me a long look, staring at my creased shirt. She turns her nose up at it, like she can sense the polyester fabric from a mile away.

“Come back tomorrow and we can figure something out. We’re very full. The room number is on your card. Enjoy your stay with us.”

I take my key card, thank the receptionist for her service, and spend two minutes figuring out how to work the elevator before realizing they’re manned by concierges.

He inspects my card and presses the correct floor, silence stretching between us as we ride up to my floor. Thedrip, dripof my wet jacket leaking on the floor fills the elevator.

“Will you be okay finding your room?” he says as I step out.

“Yes, thanks,” I say, snaking around the corridor before realizing I did indeed need his help.

Why do five-star hotels make everything so complicated?

I finally find my room, collapsing through the other side. I wring my wet jacket out in the bathroom and throw myself into bed, rolling around on pristine sheets in my dirty clothes.

The floor-to-ceiling windows remind me of the ones in Emil’s house. I walk toward the glass, opening the drapes, watching rain clouds roll in. A dark mist travels through the city, making it impossible to see further than a few yards ahead. The road is hidden underneath the mist.

The taste of coffee on my tongue turns sour. I feel like I’m lost in the sky, floating through the clouds. My hotel room is high up enough to give that illusion.

Fear rolls through my stomach, making me nauseous. I slide a hand over my lower belly bump, forcing myself to relax for the sake of my children. They’ve already endured enough stress. We all have.

Despite spending the night in the safest, most deluxe hotel this city has to offer, I feel alone. The coldness I felt from walking down the streets feels more prominent now, freezing my bones, turning them as cold as ice.

I don’t fit in. Nothing feels real, especially up here, away from everything, surrounded by people who turn a blind eye to poverty, but stick their nose up at polyester clothes. Working with rich clients at the firm made me hate people with money.

It buys them excuses. They threaten innocent healthcare workers, making it everyone’s business to get what they want.

And what Emil wants is me. Can I bend my hatred a little for finally being seen as something other than a waste of space?

I turn my back on the window, drawing the drapes. I remove my wet clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor, and walk naked into the bathroom, turning the dial on the shower toextra hot.

Before jumping in, I examine myself in the mirror, cupping each of my breasts, squeezing them in my palms. They’re bigger than I remember, more pronounced, the areolas wider. Before, I could leave the bra without a house, attend work out classes in just a tank top, wearing nothing underneath.