ELLE
I wake up at 6 AM and for a moment I don't know where I am.
The light coming through the window is wrong. Too bright. Too clean. The ceiling is too high. The room smells like expensive linens and something that's distinctly Blake—cologne or laundry detergent or just the air inside his space.
I'm at his penthouse.
I'm actually at his penthouse.
I lie in bed for a few minutes, understanding that crossing this threshold last night was a point of no return. I can still leave. I have my apartment. I have my escape route. But sleeping in this guest room, breathing this air, being this close to him—it's a kind of surrender I wasn't expecting.
The penthouse is quiet when I get up. I pad down the hallway in yesterday's clothes, heading for the kitchen. Everything is pristine. Everything
