The Moonflower Hotel

“Did I ever tell you the story of Dionysus, my darling?”

A mother asked her young son. The boy, with tousled black hair and drowsy blue eyes, immediately perked up and shook his head. At just six years old, he knew little of mythology or life’s complexities, but his curiosity was boundless.

“Will you tell me, Mum?” he asked eagerly.

She smiled gently, nodding as she climbed into bed beside him, wrapping her arms around his small frame.

“Dionysus was the god of fertility and wine, later revered as a patron of the arts. He created wine and spread the art of viticulture. He had a dual nature; on one hand, he brought joy and divine ecstasy; on the other, he could unleash brutal and blinding rage.”

The boy grasped his mother’s hand, his eyes wide with excitement.

“His parents were Zeus and a mortal woman named Semele,” she continued, gently caressing his forehead.

“Zeus, the god of thunder and lightning?” the child asked, recalling images from a cartoon.

“Yes, that’s right. Semele was deceived by Hera and perished, but Zeus saved their unborn child by sewing him into his thigh until he was ready to be born. Later, the Titans tore Dionysus apart, but he was reborn, symbolizing the cycle of life and death. To protect him, Zeus entrusted him to mountain nymphs to be raised.”

“He was raised by fairies?” the boy asked, eyes gleaming.

She nodded, choosing not to correct him.

“Let’s say, spirits of the forest.” The boy nodded, urging her to continue. “He loved his mother dearly, even though he never met her. He ventured into the underworld to bring her back to life.”

“Did he find her?” the boy asked, frowning.

His mother smiled and nodded. The boy wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly.

“I’d do that too, Mum. I’d go to the end of the world to find you.”

She laughed softly, touched by her son’s words.

“I know you would. But remember, Victor, there are always those who lurk in the shadows, consumed by jealousy and rage. People like Hera, who can’t accept reality.” The boy nodded solemnly as she concluded, “That’s enough for tonight.”

“Tell me another story~” Victor whined playfully, seeking more of his mother’s attention.

She looked at him lovingly, kissing his forehead. “Tomorrow night. I promise.”

Victor reluctantly agreed, clutching his teddy bear as his mother turned off the lights. She took one last look at her son before leaving the room.

In the master bedroom, her husband awaited, reading a book. He set it aside as she entered and joined him in bed.

“Have you told him yet?” he asked, his voice serious yet warm.

“In a way, yes. It’s not easy telling your son that his parents are getting a divorce,” she replied coldly, turning off the lights.

“Victor! Victor, it’s morning~”

He wasn’t at home; the familiar scents of vanilla and strawberry pancakes were absent. He couldn’t recall whose home he was in this time.

“Victooooor,” the voice called again, disrupting his thoughts. It was Dee’s voice, less elegant than his mother’s, with a slightly masculine tone. She shook him gently until he opened his watery blue eyes and rolled onto his back.

“Your husband isn’t home today, Dee,” he mumbled, yawning loudly. “We’ve got time; don’t worry.”

He hoped his nonchalant tone would convey that his plans took a backseat when it came to her.

She rolled her eyes and playfully hit his arm. He grabbed her wrists, pulling her onto the bed and rolling over her, trapping her beneath him. They played in the sheets for a few more hours until Victor’s stomach growled.

“Come on, I’ll get brunch ready. You go get ready for that meeting of yours,” Dee said, heading to the kitchen.

Alone, Victor sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. These distractions were his way of avoiding reality, but deep down, he yearned for more from life. As he entered the bathroom, he realized it was easier to remain detached than to face the truth that he might never achieve the life he desperately desired.

Under the shower, Victor reflected on the past week—a blur of lust and business. Everything seemed to lead to this one meeting that could change his life and bank account forever. After his shower, he looked at his reflection; the blue eyes staring back at him lacked the desire to live. The suicidal glint appeared only when he was alone, his façade slipping away to reveal his true self. He sighed and walked out, avoiding reality once more.

“Hmm, smells good~”

He approached Dee, wrapping his arms around her waist and kissing her neck.

“We don’t have time for that. You said you have a huge project coming up,” she reminded him, surprisingly attentive to his details.

Victor left butterfly kisses along her neck until she softly hit him in the ribs, prompting him to let go. He sat at the table, watching her with a forced smile.

“I do. But let’s focus on the now rather than what’s yet to come.” He sipped his coffee. “When did you say your husband will return?”

“Why? So you know when to leave?” Dee teased.

“You know me too well.”

She rolled her eyes, placing an omelette in front of him.

“This looks tasty,” he said, poking it with his fork. It was slightly burnt on the edges and undercooked in the middle. “Will it kill me?” he joked, leaning toward her.

She threw a napkin at his head, feigning offense. “No! You’re too precious to be killed just yet.”

He raised an eyebrow, placing the napkin on his neck like a child.

“Not just yet. Got it.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile.

It wasn’t surprising that a 40-year-old woman like Andrea Collini sought to spice up her sensual life. She met Victor Abbot at work in Paris. Though married longer than Victor had been alive, she no longer found happiness in her life. They met again in Venice, where their affair began. Victor wasn’t sure if it was love or mere carnal desire for her mature body—perhaps both. He just knew he wanted more, to feel life coursing through his veins, to experience the adrenaline of the forbidden.

As he looked at her, he couldn’t help but notice her imperfections first. One eye was smaller than the other; her face was plain, with a nose larger than her other features. When she smiled, wrinkles appeared on her forehead and around her mouth, though her teeth were pristine—courtesy of her wealth. Her chest implants didn’t suit her physique, making her upper body disproportionate to her lower half. She wasn’t perfect or particularly pretty; if anything, she was rather naïve for her age. But Victor liked that; he enjoyed being the perfect one in their relationship.

He smiled, taking a bite of her omelette. It tasted as bad as it looked, but he forced it down. If his project failed, he had nowhere else to go but this cottage owned by the Collini family, so indulging her whims was the least he could do.

“So, what’s the plan for today? Will you come back here or—”

Victor shrugged, knowing she wanted him to return and spend more time together. She leaned against the table, biting her lip in an attempt to be seductive, though it fell flat. He took a deep breath and gave her a peck.

“I have to go now.”

She chuckled, wrapping her arms around his neck. They kissed a few more times before he finally broke free.

Once outside, he sighed in relief. He had enjoyed the affair, but all good things must come to an end. It was time for a new discovery.

His meeting was held in Rome, in a building near the Trevi Fountain. The project he and his co-worker were working on had taken far longer than expected. They had even relocated to Italy to appease a demanding client. Now, with only a few days of work left, Victor Abbot looked forward to going home.

He missed the British air, the familiar rhythm of his people—but most of all, he missed his mother. He missed her waiting for him with warm food, the way she prepared his suit before important meetings, and especially the bedtime mythology stories she used to tell. That was home. She was home.

Victor had never liked living among strangers, in places where talent and hard work weren’t enough—where expression, etiquette, and power dynamics played a silent but decisive role. No matter where he went, appearances and lineage still mattered. And Victor hated being boxed in by other people’s perceptions. Still, he preferred being judged by his own countrymen, whose values and principles at least resembled his own, over being looked down upon by foreigners—as though they weren’t all just people sharing the same planet.

As he entered the building, he was greeted by the same security guard: a man taller than Victor, with a stuffy moustache and squinted eyes—so much so that Victor often wondered if the expression was deliberate, meant to scare people away.

Just as he stepped inside, a sharply dressed man approached.

“Look who finally showed up. Abbot, you’re late.”

Victor brushed past his colleague, and the two made their way to the elevator.

“Do you even realize how big this project is? If we land it, we can finally call ourselves architects,” said the tense man. He was dressed precisely for the occasion, his hair slicked back with just the right amount of gel.

Victor rolled his eyes and pressed the button for the fifth floor. Compared to London’s buildings, this one was small, and the elevator looked like it could fall apart at any moment.

“I know, John. That’s why I agreed to come here and spend a year in this country. I wanted to study Italian architecture... and find my muse,” Victor replied, adjusting his tie.

“And have you found it?” John asked, sceptical as always.

Victor thought of Dee—and of the women he’d been with that year. They were all married, living lives they deemed unhappy. At least, that’s what they told him. Victor doubted they even understood what happiness truly meant.

“No. I haven’t found anything broken enough... or inspiring enough,” he sighed.

John gave him a flat, unreadable look. He had long grown used to Victor’s eccentricities—but the man always came up with wild ideas that pushed them to the edge.

“You need to wake up, Victor. This is the 21st century. You won’t find anything you haven’t already seen.”

Victor bit his lip and grunted in response. Childish and romantic as his worldview was, he was also a brilliant architect. His projects—no matter how implausible at first—brought clients and acclaim.

They arrived on the fifth floor quickly. John had more questions, but pushed them aside. Today’s meeting could put them at the top of the social pyramid.

“Let’s get this right, mate,” John murmured, holding the door open for Victor.

Inside, a group of suited men sat around a table. As the two entered, every gaze in the room landed on them, shrinking the space with quiet intensity.

“So, Mr. Abbot, what exactly have you improved since our last meeting a year ago?” asked one of the stiffer associates.

“If I remember correctly, you vehemently opposed my idea to merge culture and ingenuity. You said it was far-fetched and impossible. Well, we adjusted the plan slightly—and this is what we’ve developed,” Victor began, launching into his PowerPoint presentation.

The project? A chain of restaurants designed to function like museums. Only Victor could have dreamed up such a thing. John had been certain they wouldn’t get the job—but Victor was determined.

The visuals exceeded expectations. Even the sternest associates seemed impressed. As Victor continued, John stood quietly to the side, a flicker of pride in his eyes. Moments like these reminded him why he still worked alongside Victor.

After the meeting, they went out for drinks. Victor laughed and smiled, though nothing was funny. He studied the group—six men in near-identical suits, with similarly tired expressions. Some were fatter than others, suggesting unequal success, despite their efforts to project uniform affluence. To Victor, they were money-driven corporate drones, lacking imagination and flair.

Only John stood out—like a bold streak of paint on a blank canvas. Victor admired his refusal to blend in.

A few hours later, the two Brits realized they’d spent enough time and money on socializing. Though less expressive than Victor, John was just as homesick and eager to return to his family.

“Let’s go. We’ve done our part,” Victor murmured. John, flushed and weary, nodded, in need of fresh air.

Once they paid and made their goodbyes, Victor stepped into the cool Roman night, feeling strangely invigorated after hours among capitalists.

“We’ll probably have to return soon and prepare for the real thing,” John said, lighting a cigarette. He exhaled slowly and loosened his tie. “Construction and design will take time. We might be here for a couple more years. That’s enough time to find your muse,” he teased.

Victor didn’t laugh—but he didn’t disagree either. Lately, his work had grown uninspired. He was relying more on research than vision. Even his mother’s once-vivid stories felt distant. And he was aging.

“Where to now? One of your conquests?” John asked, smirking as Victor frowned.

“Probably,” Victor replied, though he wasn’t sure. Nothing seemed worth returning to anymore.

“Well, good night, mate! I’m heading to the hotel to change—and maybe find my own muse,” John chuckled at his joke and hailed a cab.

Left alone under the streetlights, Victor weighed his options: Dee’s cottage... or another night in the company of his friend and overpriced wine. He flagged a cab, already anticipating the inflated fare.

“Where to?” asked the driver.

Victor handed him a folded note. Dee’s address.

The cab ride was noisy from the start. The driver spoke incessantly, railing against men in suits.

“They’re everywhere. Always looking to steal more money from people like me. We work—really work—and then someone in a suit comes to take it all away. We’re not stupid. But we want to live, so we give them what they want.”

Victor sighed and checked his watch. It was nearing midnight, and they hadn’t even left the city limits. He already regretted not joining John.

“These rich bastards run the government now. Just wait—new laws, all for them, never for us!” The driver lit a pungent cigarette, removing his hands from the wheel. “What, you don’t smoke? Everyone smokes these days. Passed a high school yesterday—14-year-olds passing smokes around like candy. Rotten little bastards. That’s our future!”

Victor usually remained calm, but the man’s ceaseless ranting wore him down. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to think of something—anything—else.

He imagined one of his lovers—not as she really was, but as he wished her to be. A woman so luminous that everything else faded around her. Warm, bright, magnetic—so brilliant that his thoughts would vanish the moment she drew near.

He opened his eyes, and that light—imagined only seconds ago—was suddenly real, hurtling toward them. The cab driver panicked, tried to swerve, signalled, braked—but it was too late. The impact sent the cab tumbling off the road, flipping multiple times before coming to a halt.

Victor fought to stay awake, but his eyelids grew heavier with every breath. He surrendered to the dark.

Seconds passed. A woman and two men approached the wreck. She glanced around, then pointed at the back seat.

“Take him,” she said, her voice cold and commanding.

The men nodded. Without question, they obeyed.