The hallway outside Jasmine’s room moaned like an old woman, wood swelling and sighing in the heat that had not yet broken. The candle she carried burned low, its wax dribbling down her wrist like white blood, unnoticed. Her bare feet made no sound on the Persian runner, but the walls heard her. They always had.
Behind her, the House of Solace softened into sleep. Velvet laughter faded into the hush of closing doors, silk whispering against skin, muffled gasps folded into pillows. The scent of pleasure still clung to the air—opium, sweat, the hot-spilled musk of men who wanted to forget. But Jasmine was wide awake.
Inside her room, the mirror caught her like it always did: untamed. The red silk robe she’d thrown on hung open, careless, the shadows of her collarbones sharp enough to slice
