She just doesn’t know that yet.
I reach for the handle.
Turn it.
And when the door swings open—
There she is.
Backlit by the hallway, framed like a goddamn fever dream. Still in that royal blue dress that clings to her like sin. Hair swept, skin glowing, lips parted just slightly like she’s holding in the kind of breath that never makes it out clean.
She doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t have to.
I see everything.
The tension in her spine, wound tight. The flame behind her eyes, still fighting, still lying to itself. The keycard in her hand, clenched so hard her knuckles are white.
She came armed with pride.
Shame she won’t leave with it.
My gaze drags over her slowly, unapologetically, starting at those expensive heels, up the line of her calves, pausing at the soft slit in that dress like an invitation she doesn’t remember extending.
My stare lingers on her breasts. Her throat. Her mouth.
I want her to know what I see.
I want her to feel seen.
The real her. The one underneath the polish and pedigree. The one clawing for breath in a world that only lets her smile.
I lift my eyes back to hers.
She holds my gaze.
Barely.
But she does.
And that’s what seals it.
Not the knock.
Not the keycard.
That.
That stubborn, trembling stare that says she knows what this is and she still walked through the fire.
She thinks she can survive this.
She has no idea what I’ll do to her first.
Camille
He doesn’t speak.
