Golden [h.s.]

58. thunderstorms

🎵No Lie — Wet

My heart pounds in my chest, my knee bouncing as I sit in the back of the private car that Jeff sent.

I can't believe I'm here in Britain. The country is beautiful, much more different than America, and it's a shame these are the circumstances that I'm in — I won't be able to travel the country, I won't be able to experience what England has to offer, I won't be able to visit Harry's hometown, I won't be able to meet his mother in person.

This country has already been tainted for me; it has been since that phonecall with Harry.

"Just 5 more minutes 'til we arrive, miss," the driver informs me, and I thank him. I'm so anxious that I'm about to throw up. I don't know what to expect. My knee continues its incessant bounce as I stare out the window.

The car soon pulls up to a grand building — the Four Seasons in London. I swallow hard as the driver gets out to unload my suitcase from the trunk. I thank him again before I ascend the stone stairs, my knees feeling as though they'll buckle and give way on me.

But once I enter the lobby, clarity washes over me — I came here for a reason. I refuse to wallow in my sadness and self-pity. I am more than that. I raise my chin up, walking to the front desk.

"Hi, I'm Aurelia Bardot," I say with a forced smile, pulling out my identification card. Jeff had informed me to tell the front desk my name and proof of identification, and they'd hand me the spare key to Harry's suite.

And that they did — I thanked the man at the front desk and headed to the elevators. Security lined the area, but Jeff must have tipped them on who I was and what I looked like, because I was asked no questions.

Harry's suite was on the 15th floor. Once inside the elevator, I pressed the button with my index finger, gripping the keycard with one hand and the handle of my suitcase with the other, as the elevator rises up.

It soon comes to a stop and the doors slide open. I grip my suitcase so tightly that my knuckles turn white. I step out the elevator, turning the corridor. My steps are calculated — I already spot the door to Harry's suite. My guess is that it'll take me 12 steps to get to the door.

I walk slowly — I guessed wrong; only 9 steps. I overestimated. It's funny. I've been overestimating a lot of things lately, it seems.

I raise my hand, holding the keycard to the knob. It beeps softly, the light turning green, indicating that the door is unlocked. I turn the knob, wheeling the suitcase behind me.

My stomach drops — it's a grand, luxurious suite. There's a beautiful living room with a rich, leather sofa and a large television. The windows are floor length, giving access to the expansive views of London. It's dark out now, the lights from the cars and buildings are the only illumination. The moon is nowhere to be seen.

I swallow hard as I turn to the left, where I assume the bedroom is. I was right. The bedroom is just as grand as the rest of the suite, with a large king bed in the center. I nearly throw up at the thought of what went on in here less than 24 hours before. The bed is unmade, the room a mess — a contrast to the Harry I know.

The Harry I know; do I even know him anymore? Have I ever known him?

I wheel my suitcase into the corner where it can't be seen, and just stand there, taking in the room before me. Suddenly, something catches my eye on the floor — neon pink.

Curious, I reach my foot out, hooking it with the bottom of my shoe, and I nearly throw up at the sight.

Neon pink panties.