The hotel in Miami was the kind of place that sold the idea of paradise by the square foot: marble floors, chandeliers that pretended to be constellations, orchids blooming in vases so tall they looked like monuments. Outside, the ocean played its endless, merciless lullaby, but inside everything smelled of money and curated luxury. Selma lay across the bed in a silk robe the color of spilled wine. The fabric clung where her body still burned with the heat of the night. She hadn’t needed sleep. She rarely did when Fernando was around. He sat beside her, bare chest glistening faintly in the half-light, pouring himself a drink from the minibar as if he owned not only the room but the hotel, the street, the city. In a way, he did. His presence infected spaces, claimed them the way fire clai
