I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wince at the stretch, and force myself to stand anyway, clutching the sheet around me like armor.
The bathroom is huge, marble and chrome, and his things lined up with military precision. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—hair wrecked, lips swollen, faint crescents on my throat where his mouth was.
My eyes look different.
Softer. Or just more tired.
I hate that, too.
I turn on the shower, let hot water hit sore muscles. A faint ache between my thighs reminds me of every time I said yes last night, even when it sounded like “I hate you.”
By the time I’m done, my skin is scrubbed red, and I feel less like I smell like him. It doesn’t fix the rest.
I wrap myself in one of his thick towels and pad back into the bedroom.
The tray waits
