Page 20 of Their Arrangement
The chair creaked again—leaning slightly left, as if it, too, had finally given up.
And then I stood.
I didn’t plan to.
I didn’t even know why I did.
Maybe because if I sat there a second longer, I’d scream.
Maybe because the silence was too loud, and Wolfe’s absence still pressed against my chest like a bruise.
Maybe because shame has a weight, and I needed to move before it pinned me in place.
I walked to the bathroom.
Not fast.
Not like I was running.
Just…slow.
Heavy.
Like every step was dragging guilt up from the soles of my feet.
The moment I stepped inside, the air slapped me.
Cold. Too clean. Orchids and bleach.
The overhead light flickered once before settling into a sterile buzz.
A single gold-trimmed mirror stretched across the wall.
Expensive.
Unforgiving.
I looked into it.
And hated what I saw.
My curls were frizzing at the ends. My lipstick had bled unevenly, and my eyeliner smudged just beneath the left corner. The blouse clung in all the wrong places—too tight at the bust, too loose at the waist. My skirt had twisted sideways without me noticing.
I looked like a girl who didn’t belong here.
Like someone who’d snuck in.
Like someone who didn’t know when to leave.
I rested both hands on the sink and leaned forward, staring at my reflection with the kind of desperation usually reserved for prayers.
“You don’t belong here,” I whispered.
My voice didn’t echo.
It sank into the porcelain and tile like a secret.
And for one breathless second, I waited for the reflection to argue.
