The silence in the room isn't peaceful. It’s heavy. Waiting.
I lie in the center of the massive bed, staring at the rectangle of darkness where the brass lock used to be. Now, it’s just smooth wood and a gaping hole of vulnerability.
My father’s house used to be a fortress, but with that lock gone, my bedroom feels like a display case. A fishbowl where the shark can swim in whenever he smells blood.
I pull the duvet up to my chin, but the silk nightgown underneath feels like it’s barely there. It’s sheer. Useless. A scrap of champagne lace and spiderwebs that Stavros picked out himself.
It doesn’t cover me; it frames me. It clings to every curve, sliding over my skin like water. I toss and turn, kicking the heavy covers off as the heat in the room rises. It’s two in the morning, and
