When I open my eyes, the silence presses in like a second skin.
There’s no city hum, no sirens, no footsteps above or below me. Just the sterile hum of central air and the muted throb of my heartbeat in my ears.
I sit up slowly, the sheets whispering against my skin. I’m still in the silk robe from last night, the sash knotted loosely around my waist like a ribbon on a gift I never agreed to be.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, half-expecting an alarm to go off. Or for the door to slam shut the moment I stand.
But nothing happens.
The room is still too elegant. Too composed.
I don’t trust it.
Because rooms like this—this quiet, curated luxury—they’re not for living.
They’re for keeping.
And I don’t want to be kept.
The bathroom is still stocked with everything a guest mi
