I did not sleep that night.
Not because of him.
Because of what he stirred.
The city lights filtered through the curtains, casting faint gold patterns across the ceiling. I lay in the enormous bed alone, aware of how different alone felt here.
In Briar Glen, alone meant ignored.
Here, alone felt like anticipation.
I kept replaying dinner in my mind. The way he studied me. The way he did not rush conversation. The way he listened like my words carried weight.
No man had listened to me like that in years.
At eight in the morning, there was a soft knock at my door.
Room service.
I had not ordered anything.
When I opened the door, a server wheeled in a small table draped in white linen. Silver trays. Fresh fruit. Coffee. Warm pastries.
“There is a note for you, Ms. Marrow.”
My pul
