Room Twelve

[IsabellaRose]

The room was small, soft-lit, and smelled faintly of sandalwood and expensive soap. A bottle of water sat unopened on the nightstand, beads of condensation dripping slowly down its sides. The bed was large, the sheets cream-colored and crisp, folded into a triangle at the corner like this was just any hotel. But it wasn’t. This wasn’t any night, and this wasn’t just any room.

Ava crossed one long leg over the other and smoothed her dress, a slinky, low-cut black number she couldn’t afford when she bought it. But tonight felt like the right night to risk looking worth the trouble. Her heels dangled off one toe and she flipped then back up rhythmically, like the last few ticks of a countdown clock. Every sound in the hallway made her tense and still.

Room Twelve. That’s what the envelope had said. She didn’t know who would come through that door... and that was the point. They’d taken her preference sheet earlier with all the care of a luxury concierge, checking boxes, noting her limits, offering reassurance without promises. “You’ll be matched based on compatibility, mutual attraction, and safety,” the woman behind the desk had said. “You won’t have to do anything you didn’t consent to in writing.” But they hadn’t told her if it would be a man or a woman who would come through that door. Heck, given what she'd checked on that form, it could be a couple. She hadn’t asked. Now she sat in silence and let the uncertainty crawl under her skin like silk.

She was used to attention... on the bus, at castings, in elevators where men leaned too close. Ava was beautiful in a way that was nearly inconvenient, with high cheekbones, almond eyes, and lips full enough to draw stares even when she didn’t smile. Her long, toned legs, carved from years of dance and yoga, were her secret weapon at castings. And yet, here she was, dressed up in an expensive dress she would slip off for a complete stranger, wondering if this was empowerment… or desperation.

She’d spent her days lately answering phones for lawyers who forgot her name and smiling at casting agents who called her “honey” and said, “maybe next time.” Her inbox was full of "we’ll keep your headshot on file," her fridge was full of takeout, and her bed was empty and as cold as the fridge.

This wasn’t just about sex, not really... it was about being wanted, touched, chosen. But now that she was here, alone, waiting… her chest fluttered. What if no one came? Or worse... what if someone did, and she couldn’t go through with it? What if they weren’t kind? What if they were too kind, and she liked it more than she was ready for? 

Ava glanced at the door. The number on her key card was twelve. The room number matched. Any moment now. She closed her eyes, let her fingers drift slowly up her bare thigh, and tried to steady her breath. Would it be a man with calloused hands and a patient voice? A woman with perfume and sharp nails and knowing eyes? A couple who wanted to share something dangerous and beautiful with her? She didn’t know, couldn't know, not until...

There was the click of the key card door lock releasing, and the door handle turned...