And I turn back toward the bedroom.
Toward him.
Toward whatever the hell this is going to become.
I don't have it all figured out.
But I don't need to.
I just need to choose.
And I already have.
Chapter 10: Tamsin
The new shoes don't hurt.
That's the first thing I notice as I walk through the dimly lit hallway toward the reinforced massage suite—my feet don't ache, my arches aren't screaming, and the high-quality athletic sneakers cushion every step like I'm walking on clouds instead of concrete. It's disorienting in a way I can't quite articulate. I'm wearing real athletic gear now—moisture-wicking fabric that doesn't cling with sweat, a premium sports bra that actually supports my chest, leggings that didn't come from a clearance bin. My rent is paid through the next three months. My student loan payment cleared without bouncing. My credit card balance is zero, and I have a savings account with an actual balance instead of just overdraft fees.
The cognitive dissonance is staggering.
I unlock the suite door and step inside, the volcanic heat washing over me immediately. I set my bag down on the supply station counter and pull out the bottle of premium orange juice I bought on the way here—actual cold-pressed organic orange juice that costs eight dollars for a tiny bottle, not the store-brandconcentrate I've been choking down for years. I twist the cap off and take a sip. It tastes like liquid gold.
I should feel relieved. I should feel grateful. I should feel like I can finally breathe after years of drowning in financial panic.
But I don't.
Because removing the financial stress didn't make space for peace. It made space for something else entirely.
Obsession.
I'm not worrying about bills anymore. I'm worrying abouthim.
I check my phone. 12:47 AM. Cyprian's appointment is scheduled for 12:30 AM, and he's never late—not once in the three weeks since I started working exclusively for him. He arrives exactly on time, walks through the door with that formal, controlled precision, and lies down on the table without a word.
But tonight, the suite is empty.
I start prepping the table anyway, my hands moving through the routine automatically while my brain spins in tighter and tighter circles. Fresh linens. Heated volcanic stones arranged along the edges. The high-heat oil warming in the glass container. I glance at the clock again. 12:52 AM. He's twenty-two minutes late.
My chest tightens.
This is stupid. He's probably just stuck in traffic or dealing with some corporate security crisis, except Cyprian doesn'tdotraffic and he sure as hell doesn't miss appointments without warning. I sit down on the edge of the massage table, my new shoes squeaking slightly against the heated stone floor. The suite is too quiet—just the low hum of the heating system, the faint crackle of the volcanic stones, my own breathing getting shallower with every passing second.
I check my phone again. 12:58 AM. Nothing. No text. No call. No message through the clinic's intake system.
My stomach twists hard.
This isn't like him. Cyprian is methodical. Precise. He doesn't justnot show up.I stand up and pace across the room, my new shoes cushioning every step in a way that feels wrong—too comfortable, too easy, like I'm walking on someone else's life while mine is somewhere else entirely, spiraling into panic I can't name.
1:00 AM.
The reinforced door explodes inward.
Not opens.
Explodes.
The heavy steel frame slams against the wall with a deafening metallic crash, and Cyprian stumbles through the doorway like a collapsing building.
