A Bouquet for a Ghost

The night had been endless, every twist of the sheets pulling your mind back to that one photo—her chest bared, nipples stiff under the glow of her lamp, that look daring you to do something about it. Her words had seared themselves into your brain: fuck my tits. You must’ve replayed it a hundred times while staring into the dark, torn between giddy disbelief and nervous energy. Sleep barely touched you, and when it did, her face was still there, whispering, teasing, pulling you under.

By morning you were vibrating with it, body lit up and humming. You called in sick with the most half-assed fake cough, then spent hours turning yourself into the sharpest version of Lucas possible. Clippers buzzing as you trimmed down, hot shower steam rising around you while you scrubbed yourself raw with exfoliating gel, lotion smoothing across your skin until you smelled like something out of a magazine ad. You trimmed your beard twice, double-checked your breath three times. When you finally caught your reflection, you barely recognized the eager bastard staring back.

The drive to her hotel was a blur. All you saw were flashes of what was coming—her naked under you, her tits wrapped around your cock, her voice dirty in your ear. You had to grip the wheel tighter every time your mind spun too far, muttering to yourself that you couldn’t blow it, not after all this.

Then you pulled up. The place looked like royalty stayed there—valets in pressed uniforms, lobby dripping with glass and marble. You half expected someone to stop you at the door, check if your net worth was even legal before letting you inside. But nobody blinked. You strode past the velvet chairs, flowers clutched tight in your hand, acting like you belonged.

The elevator hummed as it carried you up, heart pounding harder with every number that ticked by. Eleven. Hallway hushed, carpet swallowing your footsteps. You followed the numbers until you were standing in front of the door she’d sent: 11I.

Your fist tightened around the bouquet stems. You knocked once. Waited. Nothing. Knocked again, firmer this time.

Still silence.

Then the latch clinked. The door creaked open.

An old woman stood there, silver hair pinned neat, housecoat draped over her shoulders. Her eyes widened at the sight of you—six feet tall, athletic, bouquet in hand, probably looking like a suitor who’d taken a wrong turn in a rom-com.

“Oh, my,” she said, voice startled but polite. “I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t order any flowers.”

You blinked, throat dry. “…Flowers?” You swallowed. “Uh, no—I’m actually looking for… Sydney?”

The woman’s brow furrowed. “Sydney?” She shook her head. “No one by that name in this hall, love.”

The words landed like a cold fist in your gut.

Your worst fear unfolded right there in the hallway, bouquet wilting in your hand. All those messages, all that heat, all that teasing—a fucking catfish.

You stood frozen, forcing a weak smile to the confused woman, stammering something about a mix-up before retreating. The flowers still clutched in your fist felt ridiculous now, like props in some cruel joke. Every step back to the elevator was heavier, your chest sinking, mind replaying every detail, every red flag you’d laughed off because you wanted it to be real.

By the time the doors slid shut, you weren’t sure what burned more—the humiliation of being duped, or the hollow ache of realizing the Sydney you’d been fucking in your head was never yours to begin with.