Friday
Hours earlier...
Dominick felt like his head was about to explode. His eyelids were heavy, his tongue dry, and it felt like bile was crawling up his throat.
He tried to open his eyes several times, but couldn't. When he finally did, everything was blurry. He focused his gaze on the wall—he was practically falling out of the bed.
He ended up falling completely. When he managed to get up from the floor, he stumbled. He had to sit on the edge of the bed because, at that moment, he had no control over his limbs. He was completely naked and frowned.
He stayed in that position for several minutes, until he noticed a broken glass on the floor. He turned his face slightly toward the middle of the bed, not thinking much of it until his brain processed what he had seen. He quickly turned his head back toward the center of the bed, where a crimson stain stood out starkly against the gray bedsheets.
Dominick checked himself as quickly as his weak body allowed and ruled out the possibility that the blood was his.
"Then whose was it?" he asked himself. A sharp pain stabbed through his head.
He tried to remember. Images began to come back to him, but in no specific order. The clearer the memories became, the more his head ached…
"Why would I do that? The money in my account says I'm supposed to obey you and act compliant, right"
His heart started racing.
"You're a disgrace!"
"Dominick, you're scaring me..."
"I think you're confusing me, Dominick. What if we leave this for tomorrow?"
"No. Take off your clothes. Strip for me. And let your hair down"
It all hit him like raindrops in a downpour. "What have I done?" he asked himself, covering his face.
"If that's how you like it, then rough it is..."
He looked at the blood again on the bed, and his stomach lurched. He got up as fast as he could and rushed to the bathroom. He vomited into the toilet, his chest burning. He had been an animal.
He had taken her like a beast, and she had suffered like never before. Another wave of nausea overtook him. He emptied everything in his stomach until he felt like his insides were about to spill out.
Somehow, he stood up, flushed the toilet, and splashed water on his face.
He looked at himself in the mirror and felt disgusted. He had behaved like the worst kind of scum. None of this was her fault.
"You're an idiot!" he shouted, punching the mirror, shattering it. "You're worthless! You're the worst kind of man!"
He stormed out of the bathroom and looked at the bed again. He felt like he was going to collapse. That stain would haunt him for the rest of his life. He screamed, overwhelmed by despair.
He ripped the sheets from the bed and threw the mattress to the floor. He broke the lamps and anything else within reach…
Half an hour later, the entire room was a wreck. He got up, ran to the closet, threw on a pair of pants and a shirt, and rushed out of the room. He had to find her and beg for forgiveness.
He ran to her room and banged on the door. He spent several minutes calling her name before giving up—she wasn't there. He went to the elevator; he would search for her in the staff area.
He walked out.
People stared at him with confusion and curiosity, and no wonder—he looked disheveled, was barefoot, and blood dripped from his right fist.
Dominick was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. He was anxious, his throat dry, and guilt was eating him alive.
He arrived and stepped inside, startling three women who were seated.
"Where's Jade?" he asked, heart pounding.
"She doesn't work today," said a dark-skinned woman.
"You didn't hear?" said another girl, catching both Dom's and her coworkers' attention. "I heard her dad passed away. Then she quit. I was talking to the manager and…"
"What did you say?!" Dominick exclaimed, startled.
"I just heard about it not long ago. I don't really know…"
Dominick walked out of there in a daze, not knowing what to do. Anxiety was gnawing at him from the inside. He needed to find her—fast.
He spent nearly two hours searching every corner of the hotel in vain. He didn't find her, and no one could tell him anything beyond what he already knew. She had quit. Was it because of him? The thought crossed his mind, and the guilt became even heavier.
He stepped out of the elevator and saw Nerea's brown hair in the distance. He ran until he caught up with her.
"Nerea," he called, breathless. "Where's Jade?"
The brunette turned around, and the murderous glare she gave him told him everything—she knew.
Nerea slapped him across the face, the sound echoing down the hallway. A few people nearby turned to see what was happening.
Dominick said nothing. He knew he deserved it.
"How dare you ask about her?" the girl hissed, visibly furious. "You've got some nerve."
"Please, I need to see her. I know what I did was terrible, but I need to ask her forgiveness…"
"And you think asking for forgiveness will erase the damage you've done? Do you even realize what you did? You humiliated her! All this time you've only confused her, insulted her, harassed her," she said, jabbing a finger into his chest. Her words only made him feel even more miserable. "Jade has only suffered because of you. You used her however you pleased. You made assumptions about her that weren't even true…"
"I know that, and I want to…"
"Shut up, I'm not done yet!" she shouted, giving him a slight shove. "Do you even know what the money was for? Can you imagine why she accepted your damn offer?!"
He remained silent—he had nothing to say. Because in the moment, he hadn't thought about it. Why would he? He'd been too angry. She had agreed, and that only confirmed what he already believed.
"Her father was seriously ill! She needed the money, that's why she did it," she wiped away a tear.
"You're a despicable man. She left because of you. And in the end, her sacrifice wasn't even worth it. I hope you suffer for every tear you made my friend shed. You didn't deserve to be the first man in her life," she looked him up and down, eyes filled with disgust. "Someone like you doesn't deserve anything good. You don't deserve to be happy. I'm glad she left—now she'll never have to see you again. Don't even bother asking me where she went, because I don't know. And even if I did, I'd never tell you."
The brunette bumped her shoulder into his as she walked past him on purpose.
Dominick remained in the middle of the hallway, frozen. Every word, every insult she had hurled at him felt like a knife to the chest. She wasn't who he thought she was. And now, it was too late to undo the damage he'd caused. She was gone. And something told him… the blonde had no intention of coming back.
Not knowing what else to do, he did what he always did when the agony overwhelmed him. He returned to his wrecked room and requested several bottles.
He sat on the floor and started drinking… and drinking. He cried inconsolably for what he'd done, cursing himself for every insult he had hurled at her and every time he had made her feel small.
And so it went on for the next three days. Dominick didn't eat, didn't let anyone come in to clean the room. He hadn't showered. No one had seen him. He only asked for more bottles of alcohol and threatened the staff whenever they refused to bring him what he asked for.
In the end, they gave in. After all, he was one of their bosses…
Tuesday, march 6th
9:55 p.m.
Marcus stepped out of the taxi and grabbed his suitcase. His expression reflected his broken spirit. The woman he loved was gone, and there had been nothing he could do to stop it.
He had found out what happened at the hotel through the news.
He walked into the hotel—where he was a partner along with his friend Dominick and another man he didn't know very well. A bellhop, looking rather downcast, approached him and offered help. Marcus handed over his suitcase.
He headed toward reception, where a young woman greeted him with a bright smile. He returned it out of courtesy, but emotionally, he was anything but fine.
"How may I help you?" the woman asked.
"I'm Marcus Rusakov. I have a reservation."
She typed into the computer and smiled again.
"Yes. You've got the presidential suite, room 435. Here's your key," she handed him the electronic card.
"One question—do you know where I can find Dominick Jackson?"
"I'm sorry, sir, but we can't provide information about our guests," the girl said politely.
"He's my friend. We're partners in this hotel."
Her eyes widened. "I apologize. Let me check right away," she said, typing again. "His room is suite 303."
"Thank you," he replied. The girl nodded, and he walked away, the bellhop following at a respectful distance.
They arrived at the suite, and Marcus put his things away. He gave the bellhop a generous tip and then headed to his friend's room.
He knocked several times, but there was no response. He frowned—maybe he wasn't in?
"Miss," he stopped one of the housekeepers, "do you know if the guest in this room is in?"
"Mr. Jackson hasn't left his room in three days. I don't know what happened, but he won't let anyone in to clean, and he's just been drinking," she explained. Marcus's eyes widened in shock.
"Thank you for the information. Could you open the door for me?" he saw the hesitation in her eyes and added, "Don't worry. I'm his friend, and he won't know who helped me."
Still unsure, the woman eventually unlocked the door and left immediately. Marcus didn't waste time and stepped inside. It was completely dark… and smelled awful.
He felt a chill of worry.
"Dominick?" he called out, but got no reply. He took out his phone to use the flashlight and went to turn on the light switch.
His eyes widened at the state of the room. He thought he had been bad after his breakup with Génesis… but whatever was going on with his friend—this was much worse.
The bed frame was broken, every chair was in the same condition, and the mattress had been dragged out to the balcony, barely hanging on the edge.
There wasn't a single corner left untouched—everything was either destroyed or damaged. The furniture was torn apart, and a foul smell filled the air. A shredded bedsheet lay near the bed frame. Marcus searched the room for Dominick, but didn't see him. He took a few steps forward and grimaced in disgust when he realized he had stepped in vomit.
He rushed into the bathroom and was horrified to find his friend lying on the floor—filthy, stained with vomit, surrounded by empty bottles of alcohol.
"Dominick, for God's sake!" Marcus grabbed him by the shirt, eyes widening in panic when he noticed some bloodstains. He feared the worst and quickly checked for a pulse. It was faint. "What have you done, Dominick… What have you done…"
He was unconscious.
Marcus pulled out his phone and immediately called for an ambulance.
[...]
They took him to the nearest hospital. Marcus sat in the waiting area, eyes fixed on the hallway, waiting for the doctor to appear. He stood up as soon as he saw the man in the white coat approach.
"Doctor, how is my friend?" he asked.
"Mr. Jackson suffered alcohol poisoning from ingesting an excessive amount of liquor. If you had arrived any later, he could've slipped into a coma… or possibly choked on his own vomit. Either way, the outcome would've been the same."
"Death," Marcus muttered, exhaling deeply.
"That's right. I strongly recommend you admit your friend to a treatment center. It's clear he has a serious issue with alcoholism."
Marcus nodded.
A treatment center… He shook his head. It was more likely the sun would shine pink in Russia than Dominick ever admitting he had a drinking problem.
Marcus stepped into the hospital room. Dominick was still sedated. He sat down in the small chair and messaged Ketlan to see if there were any updates about the woman he loved. And like every other time he had asked since she left, he received the same answer:
"Still no news."