the moment they vanish, the entire lobb

e emotional car crash happening under the chandelier. The restaurant staff move around me with quiet efficiency, clearing plates, refreshing candles, resetting tables for tomorrow's tragedies. Without th

ey. My stomach plummets straight through the marble tiles, and I stare at the card like it might sprout teeth. Of course. Of course he is waiting

lt-he waits for the encore, for the aftermath, for the part where the curtain falls and you think you're safe, and then he steps out from the shadows with an invoice. The insult. The judgment. The price he thinks I owe him. He's always be

nly feels too tight, too revealing, too cheap for the room key burning holes into my fingers. I raise my chin, the gesture brittle but defiant, like I can past

left me for money-like it's been etched on the inside of my bones for eight years and tonight is just the encore performance. I pretend I don't feel like walking into the nearest ocean and letting the tide sort out

nd professional, the exact kind of gentle neutrality that makes i

way out, but they come, and that's all that matters. I tuck the envelope and the key into my purse like they're n

's waiting upstairs: a man who hates me with the kind of precision only wealth and old wounds can sharpen, a man who thinks he's confirmed every rotten suspicion he ever had, neatl

science and a lifetime's worth of resentment to spend it on. I breathe once. Twice. The elevator dings, a soft, civilized sound completely at odds with the chaos inside my chest. The doors slide open with smooth, mechanical grace, revealing a gleaming box of mirrored wa