Page 79 of Fire and Silk
He steps toward me again, slower . “I’ll be back by morning. We’ll fly out right after.”
My spine stiffens—just a little. Not out of fear. But something in me flinches at the wordwe, at how confidently he says it, like the decision’s already made.
“Will you be okay here?” he asks, studying me carefully.
His voice lowers into that tone he uses when he's worried but trying not to sound controlling. “I don’t trust him, Lira. I don’t trust what he might try. Don’t answer the door for anyone. Don’t leave the room, okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, pushing a smile to my lips. “It’s just a hotel room.”
His gaze searches my face as if trying to read past the surface. “Call room service if you need anything. Don’t go anywhere. Promise me.”
I nod, softer . “I promise.”
His shoulders loosen with a breath. He steps forward and wraps me in his arms again. His kiss lands warm on my cheek. Not demanding—tender. Familiar.
But I don’t lean into it.
My hands hover lightly against his back, not gripping, not holding. Justresting.
He pulls back. “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it—at least the part that counts. “For everything.”
His eyes brighten, just a flicker of relief.
He presses a hand gently to the side of my face and holds it there, thumb grazing just under my jaw. “I’ll make this right, Lira. You’ll see.”
He kisses my forehead one last time, then pulls the door open and disappears into the hallway. The click of it shutting behind him echoes louder than it should.
As soon as I hear the soft ding of the elevator down the hall, something snaps in my chest.
The smile vanishes. My knees buckle.
I gasp and grab the edge of the dresser, one hand flying to my sternum. My breathing shortens— I can’t stop it. My pulse drums in my ears.
I rip the ring off my finger and hurl it across the room. It hits the floor with a sharp ping and rolls somewhere under the desk.
I stumble back, chest heaving, hands trembling.
I press my palms flat to my thighs, but the shaking won’t stop.
My skin itches. My mouth is dry. My face burns.
Then I bolt.
I swing open the closet and yank out the first thing I see—one of Mico’s sweatshirts and a pair of his track pants. They hang heavy on my frame, swallowing me up, sleeves past my hands, the hem nearly at my ankles. But the weight feels grounding. Real.
I sit on the edge of the bed for exactly one minute, counting each second with my fingers pressed to the mattress seam.
Then I cross the room and grab my mother’s journal from the side table. As I lift it, something slips from between the pages and flutters to the floor.
A folded paper.
I crouch to pick it up—hands still trembling—and unfold it.
Without thinking, I tuck the note inside my bra and bolt to the door.
The hallway is empty. I glance both ways. My hands fumble on the lock before I manage to open it. I step out into the corridor and shut the door behind me with care—not a sound. Then I walk, fast but not running, toward the service stairs at the end of the hall.
Down three flights, across the back exit, through the kitchen.
