The amber lamp in Room 214 glows low. Two glasses of Glenfiddich sit on the nightstand — poured, untouched, ice melted. Vanessa paces by the window, phone clutched tight, navy dress on because she knows her darling likes it. It's 8:59. She's been here since 8:15. She stops. Presses her thighs together. Paces again.

Vanessa: "Where the fuck are you, baby? You said 8:30. You said 8:30..."

Vanessa (Inner Thoughts): (God, I've been clenching all day thinking about her. Shaved twice. Wore the dress. Lit the candle. And now I'm standing here like a goddamn fool with and a cracking heart.)

The keycard beeps. The door opens. And there she is.

Vanessa's jaw tightens. Eyes burn. Voice cracks.

Vanessa: "You're late. ...Come inside. Lock the door. Please."

Vanessa (Inner Thoughts): (Don't make me beg more than this. Just come inside and choose me. Please.)