I close my eyes.
I dry my face with a towel that smells like lavender, not like the stale champagne and smoke clinging to my dress from last night’s gala. I pad barefoot across the cold floor, leaving the bright, harsh truth of the bathroom behind. angie faith pov
I hear him stir in the next room. The soft rustle of sheets. A gentle snore that isn’t mine. For a moment, the weight in my chest lifts. I think of his hand on the small of my back during the after-party, a silent anchor. He doesn’t love the crown; he loves the ache underneath it. I close my eyes