Forbidden: His Father's Desire

SANDRA'S POV

I book a room at the front desk without really thinking about it, my fingers tightening around my credit card while the concierge types something into the computer.

"Room 206, Miss Nicholson. Enjoy your stay." 

I take the key card and head straight toward the bar before I can think too hard about anything else.

The hotel bar is quiet, dim lights reflecting softly against dark glass walls while low jazz hums through the speakers. A few people sit scattered around the room, businessmen in suits pretending they're not exhausted.

I slide onto a stool and stare at the bottles lined behind the counter. "What can I get you?" the bartender asks. "Something strong," I say, my voice flat. "Actually.....make it a double."

He nods and pours. I drink it fast. Too fast. The burn helps. Not enough, but it helps. Another. Then another. The edges start to blur. Not enough to lose control. Just enough to take the edge off.

I don't know how long I sit there, long enough that the bartender starts giving me concerned looks. Long enough that the room starts tilting slightly when I stand.

"Room 206," I mutter to myself, gripping the key card. "Second floor. I can do this." I make it to the elevator, press the button, lean against the wall as it rises. When the doors open, I step out into the quiet hallway.

206...... 206...... I squint at the number, swipe the key card, and grin slightly when the green light flashes.

"See?" I mutter to myself. "Still functioning." I push the door open and step inside.

The room is dark except for soft city light spilling through the windows. I don't bother reaching for the switch. I just want to collapse face-first into the bed and stop existing for a few hours  but then I hear it.

Movement.

I freeze.

"Hello?" A voice. Deep. Male. Calm.

What-The lamp flicks on. And sitting in the armchair across the room, glass of whiskey in hand, is a man I've never seen before.

Older. Maybe early forties. Sharp jaw. Piercing eyes. He looks at me, one eyebrow raised. "I think you have the wrong room," he says.

My brain struggles to catch up. Wrong room? I look down at the key card in my hand. I look at the number on the door. "No," I say, my voice slightly unsteady but clear. "This is my room."

He sets his glass down slowly, standing. He's tall. Intimidating in a way that has nothing to do with anger. "I booked this room three hours ago," he says evenly.

I blink. Shit. Did I...... did I mishear the concierge? My face flushes. "I-sorry, I-" I turn to leave, but the floor shifts slightly and I lose my balance.

He moves fast. His hand catches my arm, steadying me. "Easy," he says quietly. His touch is firm but not rough.

I look up at him. Our eyes meet and something shifts. Something I wasn't expecting. Something I shouldn't feel.

"You're drunk," he observes. "Not that drunk," I mutter. A flicker of amusement crosses his face. "You shouldn't be wandering hotel hallways alone like this," he says.

"I wasn't wandering. I was going to my room."

"Which apparently isn't this one." I glare at him but then my chest tightens again, and all the anger, all the hurt, everything I've been trying to hold down-It comes back.

My breath catches. "Hey," he says, his voice softer now. "Are you okay?" That question. That simple, genuine question. It breaks something.

"No," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I'm really not." He doesn't move, but his expression changes. Less guarded. "What happened?" he asks.

I let out a shaky laugh. "You don't want to know."

"Try me."

And maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's the fact that he's a stranger and I'll never see him again. Maybe it's because I need to say it out loud to someone who won't judge. But I tell him.

"I caught my boyfriend cheating," I say quietly. "With my best friend. In his bed. Today."

His jaw tightens slightly. "I'm sorry," he says. And he sounds like he means it. I shake my head. "Don't be. I'm better off without him."

"Are you?" I look at him sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're here," he says simply. "Drunk, in the wrong hotel room. Doesn't sound like you're handling it well." I bristle. "I'm handling it fine."

"Sure you are." The sarcasm is light, but it stings. "You don't know me," I snap. "No," he agrees. "I don't." Silence. Then he sighs and steps back. "Look, I'll call the front desk. Get you sorted with your actual room."

I nod quickly. "Yeah. Right. Good idea." But when I turn toward the door, his voice stops me again. "Or......." He hesitates slightly. "You can stay here for a while until you feel steady enough."

I look back at him. His expression stays calm, controlled, but there's something careful underneath it now. Like he's trying not to push too hard.

"I'm not kicking a drunk girl into a hallway at midnight," he says simply. Despite everything, a tiny laugh escapes me. "Wow. Such a gentleman."

"I try occasionally." That almost makes me smile. "You don't even know my name," I point out. "No," he says again. "But I know you've had a hell of a night."

Silence settles between us after that. Then I ask softly, "What about you?" His brows lift slightly. "What about me?"

"You sitting alone in a hotel room drinking whiskey like somebody in a depressing movie." I shrug weakly. "That doesn't exactly scream emotionally stable either."

For the first time, something real flickers across his face. "Fair observation." I study him carefully now. There's loneliness sitting underneath all that control. "What's your name?" I ask.

A pause. Then, "Kelvin." Just Kelvin. No last name or extra explanation.

"Sandra." His gaze holds mine for a second longer than before. "Nice to meet you, Sandra." The way he says my name does something weird to my stomach.

 "You can take the bed," he says. "I'll take the chair." I almost laugh. "That's not necessary."

"It is." I stare at him quietly. At the calmness. The restraint. The way he hasn't once looked at me like I'm something easy to take advantage of even though I'm standing here drunk and emotionally wrecked.

"You know......." My voice softens slightly. "You're the first person tonight who hasn't made me feel stupid."

His expression shifts again. "You're not stupid," he says quietly. "You trusted people you loved. That's not the same thing."

My chest tightens painfully. Nobody said that upstairs or defended me. Before I can overthink it, I step toward him.

His eyes narrow slightly. "Sandra-" I kiss him soft at first. Tentative. Like I'm testing whether this is real.

He freezes immediately. Then pulls back gently, his hand resting against my wrist. "You're upset. This isn't-"

"I know what I'm doing," I interrupt. "You're not thinking clearly." A shaky breath leaves me. "No," I whisper honestly. "I'm really not."

Silence. Then softer, "But for the first time tonight, I don't feel humiliated standing next to someone."

Something heavy passes through his expression at that. "I just......" My voice cracks slightly. "I need tonight to belong to me somehow. Not to Austin. Not to Pamela. Not to what they did."

Kelvin stares at me for a long moment. His jaw tightens slightly like he's fighting something internally. "You'll regret this in the morning," he says.

"Maybe," I admit.

"Then why-"

"Because right now......." My voice comes out quieter this time. "I just want somebody to choose me gently for once."

That breaks something in him. He studies me for one more long moment. Then he cups my face. And kisses me. This time, he doesn't hold back.

What happens next isn't gentle. It's desperate, urgent, two people trying to outrun their own demons. His hands, my hands, clothes discarded without thought.

And for the first time since walking into Austin's apartment tonight, I stop feeling broken for a little while.