The taxi drops me at the curb of our street, the kind of narrow, dimly lit neighborhood where the streetlamps flicker like they're paid hourly and currently debating whether to quit mid-shift. The night air smells faintly of dust and someone grilling two blocks away, the ordinary hum of life that feels like a foreign language after the penthouse.
I stand there for a moment—not moving, not breathing properly—just letting the contrast hit me like a slap. The drop from polished marble floors and panoramic views into uneven pavement and chipped curbs is so steep it feels physical. The silence here is different too. Less curated. Less intentional. It's the silence of tired neighbors, of families closing curtains, of street cats prowling for scraps. Ordinary, simple life. I used to crave it. Tonight it feels like something I accidentally left behind years ago and am only now returning to as an imposter.
The house looks smaller tonight. It always looks small, but tonight it looks compressed, like it's tucking itself inward, bracing for whatever version of me walks through the door. The living room window glows faintly—warm, familiar, worn around the edges from years of use—but no shadows move behind it. Good. They're asleep. I don't have the strength for my mother's well-meaning chatter or my father's quiet, exhausted scanning of my face, searching for signs of new disaster. Their hope is a fragile thing I don't have the heart to shatter tonight.
The key sticks in the lock the way it always does, catching in the mechanism like it, too, is tired of trying. I push inside silently, toe off my heels, and tiptoe down the hallway on chilled, aching feet. The house smells faintly of cumin and lemon dish soap—my mother's comfort scents, the scents of normalcy, of dinners that last more than twenty minutes, of days when money wasn't a wolf snarling at our door.
The scent hits me like a slap. It doesn't soothe. It hurts.
The hallway feels narrower than usual, the shadows deeper. My footsteps echo too loudly in my own ears, each one a reminder that I'm carrying something poisonous back into this space—shame, dread, humiliation, the magnetic aftertaste of a man who once mattered too much and now holds the kind of power that could crush me if I make one wrong move.
I keep the lights off; I don't need illumination. I don't want any version of this night brightened or exposed. Tonight is something that needs to stay half in shadow, like a bruise you pretend isn't there. Light feels dangerous—like if it touches me, the whole house will see everything written on my face.
My bedroom door closes behind me with a soft click that feels like the first mercy the universe has offered me in hours.
I peel off the dress like it's contaminated, like it's soaked in Adrian's voice and that razor-edged stare he used when he measured the price of my dignity against ink and paper. My skin crawls remembering the way he spoke to me—cold, assessing, like he was dissecting me with gloved hands. The dress lands in the hamper, a crumpled pile of expensive shame, and I strip off the rest, refusing to let myself think about how many versions of humiliation clung to me even after I left his penthouse.
I step into the shower and twist the knob until steam rises in angry clouds around me. Scalding water slams down on my shoulders, and I let it burn, welcoming the sting. I scrub until my skin turns pink, until the steam fogs the mirror and the tiles, until my chest loosens just enough to breathe. And still, under the heat and lavender soap, I don't feel clean. Adrian's voice lingers like smoke. His eyes linger like bruises. His words slice a thousand cuts.
My mind keeps replaying the way he looked at me—like he knew my breaking point and was willing to press on it just to see how far the fracture would travel. The penthouse air had felt thin, charged, as if he'd sucked all the oxygen out of the room just by being there. Even now, under streaming water, the memory of it grips me with cold fingers.
When I finally step out, the cold air feels like punishment. I pull on my faded pajamas—soft, threadbare cotton that has survived too many years and too many disappointments. The fabric settles against my skin like an apology. Safe. Familiar. Mine.
My hair drips down my back in damp strands as I sit on the edge of my narrow bed, open my purse, and pull out the envelope.
The checks sit inside like two ghosts—fifty thousand in one, five thousand in another—alongside the ten crisp hundred-dollar bills from Sutton's tip. They look obscene in this tiny room, like an intruder. Money this large shouldn't exist beside peeling paint and thrifted furniture. It doesn't belong in this life, and neither, apparently, do I.
The weight of them presses into my lap—heavy, accusing, as if they're waiting for me to accept my place in a world where my body and choices are currency. Where families survive because daughters swallow their pride and walk into dangerous rooms with men who speak softly and wield power like a blade.
I slide the checks and cash into the nightstand drawer and close it slowly, gently, as if slamming it might summon something. Or someone. Or some version of myself I can't face.
The click of the drawer echoes longer than it should, sending a tremor down my spine.
I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling, the spinning fan blades creating dizzy circles in the dim light. My skin still feels too tight for my body, my mind too crowded. Panic sits curled under my ribcage like a feral thing, refusing to be soothed.
I try to will myself to sleep, but my body is too wired, too humiliated, too wrapped in the words I didn't say, the ones I should have said, the ones I wish I could rip out of my own throat.
My mind keeps replaying the penthouse. His face. His disdain. His voice when he said, "Take off my jacket."The command in it.The challenge.The unspoken: Let's see how far you'll bend.
The way my hands shook.The way I let them.
I press my palms over my eyes, but it does nothing to stop the acid memory burning behind them.
My heart kicks too hard against my ribs, like it's trying to claw its way out. Shame crawls over me in waves—hot, sticky, unbearable.
The room feels too small. My chest too tight. My heart too loud. Shame feels like a heavy blanket laid over me, suffocating, weighted, impossible to kick off.
I shift on the mattress, restless, desperate, my thoughts spiraling. Every creak of the old house feels amplified, like the walls are listening, judging. I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to scream. I want to run until I disappear.
But instead, I lie there.
Eventually, exhaustion wins by sheer force of attrition, dragging me under like a tide.
And the night drags me somewhere worse.