He gives me a look that says he knows I'm lying but isn't going to push. "Food will be here in twenty. Clothes might take longer. I gotta call in a favor."
"You don't have to—"
"Yeah, I do." He's already moving toward the door. "Lock this behind me. Don't open it unless it's me."
"How will I know it's actually you?"
"Because nobody else knows you're here." He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "And nobody's gonna know unless you tell them. You're safe here, Savannah. I promise."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it physically hurts. But I've been promised safety before. Derek promised to love and cherish me and look at how that turned out.
Still. What choice do I have?
"Okay," I whisper.
He leaves. I hear his footsteps fade down the hallway, and then I'm alone.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a long moment, trying to process everything that just happened. My mind feels like it's moving through mud, slow and thick and struggling to make sense of anything.
Then I stand up. Slowly, because my feet are screaming and lock the door like he told me to.
The bathroom is small but clean, just like the rest of the room. White tiles, generic fixtures, a shower that's seen better days but looks functional. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and have to suppress a gasp.
I look like hell.
My makeup is smeared beyond recognition—mascara tracks down my cheeks, foundation patchy where I've been crying and sweating. My hair is half-falling out of the elaborate updo my stylist spent two hours creating. The bruise on my jaw that the makeup artist covered is showing through now, a purple-yellow shadow that makes my stomach turn.
And the dress. God, the dress.
It cost four thousand dollars. My mother insisted. She said Derek deserved to see me in something beautiful, said I should be grateful he was willing to pay for it considering my figure. Now it's ruined. Blood on the hem, dirt ground into the fabric, one of the straps torn where it caught on something during my run.
Good. I'm glad it's ruined. I hope I never have to look at it again.
I reach behind me to undo the zipper and immediately run into a problem: I can't reach it. The dress was designed to be put on with help. My sister Melissa zipped me in, her hands gentle and excited, chattering about how beautiful I looked.
I wonder if she's still at the venue. If they're all still there, waiting for me to come to my senses and return.
I wonder if anyone's worried, or if they're just angry that I embarrassed them.
I already know the answer to that.
I struggle with the zipper for a few more minutes before giving up. I'll have to wait until Knuckles comes back. The thought of asking him for help undressing makes my skin crawl with anxiety, but the alternative is staying in this dress all night, and I can't do that.
I settle for washing my face instead. The hotel provides those tiny bottles of soap and shampoo, and I use an entire bottle of face wash trying to scrub away the makeup and the memories of this horrible day.
The bruise on my jaw looks worse without the makeup. Three days old and still angry. Derek caught me with a backhand when I suggested we postpone the wedding. He said he'd already paid for everything and I was being ungrateful.
Then he'd kissed it better and told me he loved me. Said he only got upset because he cared so much. Said I needed to learn not to push his buttons.
I'd believed him. Or at least, I'd pretended to believe him, which amounts to the same thing.
I'm staring at the bruise when someone knocks on the door. Three sharp raps.
I limp back to the door, my feet protesting every step. "Who is it?"
"It's me. Got your food."
I unlock the door and open it. Knuckles is standing there alone with a brown paper bag that smells like heaven.
