And she left the door open behind her.
I stood there for a moment with my back pressed against the door, breathing slow and controlled.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
My pulse steadied gradually.
But my thoughts didn’t.
Why the hell was she behaving like that?
Was she trying to provoke me?
Push me into reacting—so the cameras could capture it?
So she could twist it? So she could present me as unstable?
Dangerous? Unfit?
The thought lingered.
My jaw tightened.
Either way—it didn’t matter.
She wasn’t important.
I exhaled slowly, letting the thought slip through my fingers.
I pushed her—every trace of her—out of my mind.
The room felt quieter now, emptier, as I crossed it in measured steps.
The bathroom door stood slightly ajar, a sliver of shadow cutting across the floor.
I pushed it open, stepped inside, and closed it behind me with a soft, final snick.
I turned on the shower.
Steam rose fast, fogging the mirror.
I stripped the nightgown off—silk pooling at my feet like spilled moonlight—and stepped under the spray.
Water hit my shoulders. Ran in rivulets down my back, my breasts, between my thighs.
I closed my eyes.
And remembered.
His mouth on me—slow at first, then ravenous.
The way his tongue had circled my clit with ruthless precision.
