I step out of the bathroom, grateful Martha left my clothes from yesterday freshly steamed, carrying the faint sweetness of fabric softener. The scent clings to the fabric like a promise of normalcy, a reminder that someone cared enough to erase the chaos of last night. The woman deserves sainthood. If I had the Vatican’s number, I’d call it myself. I’m fairly certain I threw up on myself, but confirming it would kill me with embarrassment, so I don’t.
The hallway light spills across the floor as I reenter, and the room stills. Their voices—sharp, overlapping, heated—die mid-sentence. Silence presses in, heavy and expectant. Two gazes snap to me: Gaston’s lips curl into a smug smirk, the kind that dares me to laugh at his audacity, while Phantom’s expression tightens, irritation etched
