The sky over Tennessee was the color of wet slate, pressing humid air against Emily’s skin the moment the hotel doors slid open. Brian walked like he owned the pavement—calls in one hand, texts in the other, the brief touch at the small of her back a claim more than a kindness.
In the suite he kissed her once, mouth hard, possessive.
“Come here,” he murmured, already tugging at the tie of her blouse.
“I’m exhausted,” Emily said softly, shaping her tone to sound apologetic, pliant. “Jet lag’s bad.”
A beat. Then a dismissive kiss to her temple. “Tomorrow, then.”
He showered. She turned off every lamp and lay in the dark, breathing evenly, performing the oldest trick she knew: sleep.
But sleep never came.
The balcony door slid open. Sirens and bar laughter rose from the street. Brian’s
