The old man makes a move

The silver-haired man rises, his linen shirt gaping to reveal a torso taut with muscle that defies his age. He pauses behind Mea’s chair, ostensibly adjusting his cufflinks. A folded square of thick hotel stationery drops onto her lap as he passes, his aftershavel lingering like a challenge. She unfolds it under the table: *Bathroom corridor. Now. Come alone if you want to learn what your husband hasn’t taught you.* Her pulse stutters. The handwriting is precise, the paper faintly sticky with what might be champagne or the residue of another woman’s arousal.

Max is mid-sentence about the scallops when Mea abruptly stands, clutching her napkin like a lifeline. "Bathroom," she blurts, pressing a kiss to his temple that lingers a second too long—equal parts apology and promise. The tablet screen still glows with their unconfirmed booking, casting shadows across Max’s knuckles where they whiten around his fork. He nods, watching her stride toward the restrooms with predatory stillness, the silver-haired man’s note crumpled in her fist.

The corridor is dimly lit, scented with jasmine and salt from the nearby spa. Mea rounds a corner and collides with hard muscle—the stranger pins her against the wall, his knee nudging her thighs apart before she can gasp.