The bathroom is bigger than my first apartment. Polished marble floors, a high-end rainforest shower, and a sleek, backlit mirror that I avoid making eye contact with because I know how wrecked I look. My palms are clammy, my heart’s racing.
I take a deep breath, trying to slow the frantic thudding in my chest, and that’s when it hits me. The bathroom smells faintly of cedarwood and some kind of expensive soap—like a forest got drunk on a Saturday night and decided to crash at a spa. It’s the kind of smell that makes you want to inhale deeply, which I do. Unfortunately, that also reminds me of the joint.
God, was that even a smart idea? I don’t even smoke weed! But no, I thought,It’s my birthday. What’s the worst that could happen?
Apparently,this. A billionaire bathroom that smells like indulgence, me having a minor breakdown, and the looming shadow of whatever terrible luck brought me here in the first place.
I glance at the shower controls—chrome and glowing faintly blue, like some futuristic spaceship cockpit. Hot water. Definitely hot water. A cold shower might make sense logically, but there’s no way I’m saying no to a massage spray that could power-wash my soul.
I strip off my clothes, piece by piece, tossing them onto the floor in a messy heap. My jeans smeared with mud and rain. My shirt? Sweat and desperation. By the time I’m down to my underwear, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and freeze.
“Oh, my God.” I laugh—actually laugh—at the sight of myself. It’s not even funny, and yet it’s hilarious. My hair looks like I’ve been electrocuted, my mascara is halfway down my face like some sad panda, and my expression is pure, unfiltered chaos. “This is why people shouldn’t do drugs,” I mutter, pointing at my reflection. “You look ridiculous. Like a raccoon who got caught robbing a Sephora.”
I laugh again, harder this time, doubling over with my hands on my knees. The sound bounces off the marble, echoing back at me like a taunting ghost. I bite my lip hard to stop the noise, but my shoulders keep shaking. Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes. It’s not funny—nothing about this is funny—and yet here I am, laughing so hard I’m almost crying. Great. That’s not unsettling at all.
“Get it together, Bella,” I mutter, swiping at my damp cheeks. “You’re not high. You’re just… temporarily stupid.”
I press my lips together to muffle another round of giggles, which is a terrible idea because now they’re trembling. It’s like my body is stuck on a laugh-cry loop. Fantastic. I stand there, gripping the edge of the sink, willing the wave of ridiculousemotions to pass. Slowly, my breathing steadies. My lips stop trembling. The urge to laugh subsides, leaving behind a weird, hollow ache in my chest.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I hook my fingers under the straps of my bra, unclasp it, and let it fall to the floor. My panties follow, and for some reason, that feels like the biggest hurdle—like they’re the last shred of logic I’m clinging to. The cool air brushes against my skin, raising goosebumps, but I ignore it. It’s just me and this absurdly fancy bathroom now.
The water hisses as I turn on the shower, steam billowing almost immediately. The heat wraps around me like a hug from the inside out, and I don’t even hesitate to step in. The moment the water hits me, it’s like a switch flips. Hot, soothing jets pound against my skin, kneading every tense muscle until I’m practically melting. My head tips back, my eyes flutter closed, and a low groan escapes my lips before I can stop it.
“This,” I whisper to the showerhead, “this is what heaven feels like. I don’t even care if I’m dead.”
The smell of cedarwood intensifies as the steam rises, mixing with the lavender shampoo I find in an absurdly chic dispenser. I lather it into my hair, marveling at how soft it feels.
“Rich people shampoo,” I murmur. “Of course it’s life-changing. Probably costs ninety dollars a drop.”
Minutes pass—maybe more. The combination of heat, steam, and my hazy brain slows everything down to a lazy crawl. I press my forehead against the cool tile, the contrast a jolt of clarity. My fingers trail idly through the water cascading down my body, and for one fleeting, shameful moment, I think abouthim.The man in the portrait. His eyes, his smirk, his hands. What they’d feel like.
I snap upright, blinking rapidly. “Nope,” I say out loud. “Nope, nope, nope. Not doing this.”
The shower continues to pour over me, but my brain is already running in circles. What iswrongwith me? It’s just a stupid painting with the stupidly hottest man I’ve ever seen.
I violently shake my head as if that’ll somehow rattle the absurd thoughts loose. It doesn’t work. Instead, I’m left standing there, wet hair dripping down my back and my high brain reminding me in a very smug voice that I was just flirting with a painting.
“You’re nuts, Bella,” I mutter, rubbing my temples. My eyes land on the shower shelf, where an assortment of bottles gleam like a rainbow of overpriced promises. Frosted glass, metallic caps, labels written in elegant script—it’s like a soap convention for the rich and shameless.
One bottle catches my eye, its gold lettering practically shoutingSavon Élite pour Hommes.I squint at it, my brain translating it asElite Soap for Fancy Dudes.Or maybeSmell Like Power and Questionable Life Choices.Either way, it’s coming with me.
“Well,” I say, grabbing the bottle, “if I’m going to lose my mind, I might as well smell like success doing it.”
The pump gives a satisfying squelch as I squeeze out a dollop of the soap. It’s thick, pearlescent, and smells like a lumberjack wandered into a luxury cologne store. Cedarwood, a hint of leather, and something so masculine it practically grows a beard on contact. I sniff it again.
“Holy shit, this smells like… regret. Sexy regret.”
I start with my hair because it seems logical. Soap is soap, right? I lather it in, the rich foam making my fingers glide through my hair like butter.
“French soap for French hair,” I murmur, catching my reflection in the shower’s glass panel. My head is now a frothy, bubbly mess, like I stuck it in a whipped cream dispenser. I laugh at myself—actually laugh.
“This,” I say to the mirror, pointing at my sudsy reflection, “is why people shouldn’t smoke weed. Look at you. You’re ridiculous. You’re one loofah short of starring in a shampoo commercial for idiots.”
Still giggling, I rinse my hair, the smell intensifying as the soap cascades down my shoulders. It’s oddly intoxicating, filling the shower with the kind of scent that belongs in a men’s magazine ad, complete with a brooding guy leaning against a motorcycle.
Next, I pump out more of the soap for my face. “You’re expensive,” I tell the bottle, “so you’d better multitask.” I lather it on, scrubbing vigorously before realizing the masculine scent has now invaded my nostrils, like I’m inhaling the essence of testosterone.
I rinse, blinking at the steam swirling around me. “Clean face, clean conscience. Except not really, because now I smell like a lumberjack, and I’m still thinking abouthim.”
