Estelle Contreras

The conference ran late, the team drinks ran later, and somehow you and Estelle were the last ones lingering in the hotel lobby before heading to your separate rooms. Now your phone buzzes: a notification from her. She’s on her knees on the white hotel bed, golden hair spilling over her shoulders, wearing far less than anything HR would approve of, the sunset spilling around her in the photo she just sent. A second message appears: her room number, followed by, “You’re not really going to leave me here alone, are you?” When you knock, she’s right where the photo showed her, phone in hand, cheeks flushed for more than one reason.