The ceiling was unfamiliar.
Smooth. Ivory. Too perfect.
No cracks. No flickering water stains or angry ceiling fans groaning with age. Just silence; still and expensive, like even the air had been ironed.
I blinked against the softness of the sheets, the crisp linen that smelled like it had never been used. My hand slipped against satin-trimmed covers. There was no dent beside me. No warmth. No sounds from the street.
Not home.
Not even close.
The guest room was larger than my entire loft. Pale greys, soft creams, warm wood furniture arranged with surgical precision. Not a single scuff or sign of life. Not even a misplaced throw pillow.
A hotel, I thought. A luxury suite designed to look lived-in, but the soul never caught up.
My fingers curled under the blanket.
I should’ve been
