Miller stretched beside her, catlike and unhurried. “I know.”
They’d developed a rhythm for this part too. Astoria dressed first while Miller watched from the bed, openly appreciating the view in a way that made Astoria's skin warm even now. Then, there was the goodbye at the door—never rushed, never performative, just a kiss that communicateduntil next timewithout either of them having to speak the words.
Tonight, Astoria took longer than usual buttoning her blouse. Her fingers felt clumsy and reluctant.
“Hey.” Miller appeared beside her, still wrapped in the hotel robe. She caught Astoria's hands, stilling them. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Astoria managed a smile. “Just tired.”
“Liar.” But Miller had said it gently without accusation or malice. She finished the rest of the buttons herself, smoothing the fabric over Astoria’s shoulders. “There. Presentable.”
“Thank you.”
“Text me when you get home?”
It was a small thing, the kind of request that should have felt ordinary, but somehow it undid Astoria more than anything else. Valerie had never asked her to text when she got home. Valerie had never cared whether Astoria arrived safely or at all.
“I will,” she said and meant it.
Miller walked her to the door—a part of their routine that was completely unnecessary, almost silly in a hotel room this small—but Astoria had come to crave those extra seconds. Miller's hand found the small of her back as she reached for the handle.
“Goodnight,” Miller said softly.
Astoria turned. Miller was so close, her face tilted up, her lips slightly parted. The robe had slipped off one shoulder, exposingthe collarbone Astoria had been kissing only moments before. She looked soft and rumpled and entirely too inviting.
“Goodnight.” Astoria leaned in.
The kiss started gentle, but Miller's fingers curled into Astoria's blazer and pulled her closer and gentle became something else. Astoria's hand came up to cup Miller's jaw, angling her head and deepening the kiss until Miller made that small sound in the back of her throat that always threatened to undo Astoria's resolve entirely.
She was so lost in the moment that she didn’t hear the footsteps until they were almost on top of them. The rattle of wheels on the carpet and quiet clink of glass followed soon after.
Astoria pulled back just as a man in the hotel's burgundy uniform rounded the corner, pushing a room service cart. He was maybe ten feet away when he looked up from his path.
He stopped.
For one frozen moment, nobody moved. Astoria was still in the doorway, one hand on Miller's waist, Miller still pressed against her in a robe that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. There was no way to misread what he was seeing. No way to explain it away as colleagues or friends or any of the flimsy covers they might have tried.
Then Astoria saw it happen: the flicker of recognition in his eyes. The way his gaze sharpened on her face, placed her, and connected her to whatever image he'd seen in the news or the business pages or the society columns documenting Phoenix Ridge's most public divorce.
Astoria Shepry, billionaire CEO, currently embroiled in a vicious legal battle with her estranged wife, and now spotted kissing a woman in a hotel doorway at eleven o'clock at night.
The moment stretched into something endless. Astoria couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except watchthe calculation happening behind his eyes—what he was seeing, what it meant, what the information might be worth.
Then he dropped his gaze, muttered “excuse me,” and pushed his cart past them down the corridor without looking back.
The spell shattered.
Astoria stepped away from Miller so fast she nearly stumbled. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, her skin suddenly cold and clammy despite the July warmth.
“Astoria—”
“I have to go.” The words came out strangled and wrong. She couldn’t look at Miller’s face, couldn’t stand to see the confusion or concern she’d undoubtedly find there. “I’ll text you.”
She was already down the hallway before Miller could respond, walking too fast, her heels loud against the carpet. She didn’t look back to see if the employee had stopped again, if he was watching, if he’d pulled out his phone to tell someone what he’d seen.
The elevator took forever to arrive. Astoria stabbed the button again, though it was futile, and focused on her breathing—in through the nose, out through the mouth—the same way she’d learned to calm herself during Valerie’s worst episodes, when the world narrowed to survival.
When the elevator doors finally opened, she stepped inside and pressed herself against the back wall. Seventeen floors of silence and her own reflection in the brushed metal doors.
