I sit on the edge of the bed, staring out at the Boston skyline through the narrow window. The city stretches far and wide below, indifferent to the weight pressing against my chest. Somewhere out there, Nathaniel is looking for me. The thoughtsits heavy in my stomach, curling like smoke that refuses to dissipate.
The walk downtown was disorienting. Every step felt like I was wading through water, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. I kept looking over my shoulder, half expecting to see Nathaniel’s tall frame emerge from the crowd, but no one followed.
Boston was big enough to disappear into, but the paranoia lingers like a shadow.
I drag in a breath and sink further into the bed, letting my bag slide to the floor with a dull thud. The room is safe, clean, but far from extravagant. A place to breathe—without Nathaniel’s presence closing in around me.
And yet…
The isolation twists things in my mind. I wanted space, but now that I have it, I can’t stop imagining him. The silence only amplifies the ache. I picture the moment he came home, his gaze sweeping the penthouse—expecting me to be there, waiting. I can almost see him, standing in the doorway of the empty bedroom, staring down at the necklace I left behind.
He would know instantly.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing the heel of my palm against my forehead as if that could block out the image. I hate how easily I can picture the tightness in his jaw, the flicker of panic he’d try to bury beneath control. Nathaniel isn’t the kind of man to fall apart publicly, but behind closed doors? I don’t doubt he’d tear the whole city apart to find me.
Part of me almost wishes I’d left a message—something to explain, to ease the storm that will be brewing in his chest right now. But I know better. If I’d texted, he would have tracked me down before I took two steps out the door. He wouldn’t have let me out of his sight once he caught me.
And that’s exactly why I can’t reach out now.
Still, the weight of it clings to me. I hate hurting him. I hate imagining the frantic way he must be searching, how the seconds without me will chip away at his carefully constructed calm.
I could go back tonight. Just to reassure him.
I shift forward, my hands gripping the edge of the mattress as the idea begins to take shape. But even as I consider it, something else rises inside me, something more resolute.
I need this space to decide what comes next without him looming over me.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. Nathaniel will just have to bear it a while longer.
And so will I.
The next day,as I stand at the hotel room door, duffle in hand, I know I’m not going back to Nathaniel’s penthouse. Not yet.
There’s one last thing I need to know.
Instead of heading uptown, I call a cab to Halford.
I walk the familiar paths of campus with purpose till I reach the dormitory building. I take the stairs up to my floor but find myself hesitating once I reach the entrance of my old room.
Taking a deep breath, I slip my hand into my coat pocket, pulling out my wallet. Tucked in one of the folds, behind a few old receipts, is the slim access card for my dorm room. I slide it free, tracing the worn edges with my thumb.
I kept it, much to Nathaniel’s chagrin. He insisted that I move into the penthouse completely, urging me to let go of the room on multiple occasions, calling it unnecessary. But I held onto it anyway, brushing off his requests with vague excuses about needing the space for convenience or familiarity.
The lock releases with a quietclick, and as I step inside, the stale air and silence greet me like strangers. The room still belongs to me, but standing here now, it feels distant—like it was never really mine to begin with.
I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone. That same prickling sense of being watched creeps over me, even in the stillness. My gaze sweeps the room, searching for something—anything—that explains it.
And then I see it.
Near the ceiling, just above the sprinkler system, is a faint square opening. My heart thuds painfully.
Last semester. Thesprinkler inspection.
It had never happened before, not in my entire time at Halford. And not to the other girls on my floor—just me. I remember how they explained it as routine maintenance, though I didn’t question it at the time. The men had looked professional enough.
But now, as I stare at the opening, doubt whispers through me.
I scan the room, pulse skittering. The vents. The smoke detector. Even the tiny gap above the wardrobe. Each one looks normal, but the normalcy feels staged—too neat, too ordinary.
