I woke up in a bed that did not smell like me.
It was the first thing I noticed.
Not the breathtaking view beyond the floor to the ceiling windows. Not the pale morning light spilling across the floors. Not the oppressive silence of a home so immaculate it looked as though no one truly lived there.
It was the scent.
Lavender and expensive detergent, crisp and unfamiliar, woven into sheets softer than anything I had ever slept on. The mattress cradled me like a cloud, and the duvet was so light it felt like being wrapped in cool silk.
Everything about the room was luxurious.
And none of it felt like mine.
For a few disoriented seconds, I stared at the high ceiling and tried to remember where I was.
Then it came back to me in one merciless rush.
The cathedral, vows, applause.
Matte
