The apartment was quiet again, but the silence wasn’t the same anymore.
Two nights ago, she had walked into this penthouse as a desperate tenant. Now, she moved through it with his touch stamped all over her skin.
She stood in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts that barely reached the tops of her thighs. The hem brushed against her skin with every step. She told herself it didn’t mean anything. She told herself it was temporary. But the truth wrapped around her tighter than fabric.
The coffee machine hissed softly on the counter. The city stretched out beyond the glass walls. She almost felt normal. Almost.
Until she saw the paper on the island.
She picked it up slowly. His handwriting was sharp, controlled. A list of rules.
1. No locking doors.
2. Wear what I want when we’re ho
