Chapter 7
Lucia
The suite is too big.That’s the first thing I notice once the door closes behind me and the silence settles in. The space stretches in directions I don’t need. Living area. Desk. Windows that look out over a city I don’t know yet. Everything is soft and expensive and deliberately impersonal, not meant for someone who counted exits an hour ago and still does it automatically.
I stand there for a moment with my bag still on my shoulder, like if I don’t move, none of this will become real.
It does all the same.
I drop the bag by the couch. Kick off my shoes with a carelessness that feels almost rebellious. Walk to the window and press my forehead lightly against the glass. The city below is waking up, early and indifferent. Cars move in neat lines. Lights flick on floor by floor. People go to work. Life continues as if I didn’t just dismantle my own.
My body finally registers how tired I am. My mind doesn’t care. I throw on a nightdress and lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling, heart still running on adrenaline and borrowed calm. Every time I close my eyes, images stack on top of each other, too fast to separate. Marco’s hand on my wrist. His pupils blown wide. The way the apartment felt like it was holding its breath.
Then the elevator doors, sliding shut. Then the stranger’s mouth inches from mine, stopping because he chose to.
That part won’t let go of me.
I roll onto my side and reach for my phone, thumb hovering over the screen like there might be something waiting for me if I look long enough. Then I stop myself. There’s no one to call. No one who won’t come with questions or expectations or concern sharp enough to turn into control. No one who wouldn’t ask where I am.
I don’t want to be found.
Hunger creeps in instead. Sharp and insistent, the kind that doesn’t care about timing or finances or whether I deserve comfort.
Room service is a terrible idea. I know that immediately. I don’t know what’s coming next. I don’t know how long I’ll be here. I shouldn’t be spending money on things that disappear as soon as they’re consumed.
I order food, anyway. When it arrives, I eat standing up, barefoot on carpet that probably costs more than my last month’s rent. The normalcy of it—fork, plate, warm food—hits me harder than I expect. My throat tightens. It feels like permission I didn’t ask for.
After, I sit at the desk and try to plan. I write things down. Practical things. Cities I could go to where Marco wouldn’t look first. People I could email without explaining too much. How long my savings might stretch if I’m careful.
If I’m careful.
I stop when I realize I’ve written it four times in a row, like repetition might turn it into protection.
That’s when I reach into my bag.
And don’t feel my wallet. The absence is immediate and absolute.
I freeze, hand still inside the bag like if I don’t pull it out, I can undo the mistake. My chest tightens, breath going shallow and fast, panic already crawling up my spine.
No.
No, no, no.
I dump the contents of the bag onto the desk. Phone. Charger. Lip balm. Keys. Receipts. I check again, slower this time, fingers pressing into seams, zippers opened and reopened like the wallet might materialize if I’m thorough enough.
It doesn’t.
The panic spikes fast and hot, skipping past mild concern and going straight for catastrophe.
My ID.
My address.
My name.
Everything Marco would need if he wanted to find me.
I picture him tearing the apartment apart, checking drawers, checking accounts, calling people I didn’t even realize he knew about. I picture him calm instead of angry, which is worse. Marco when he’s decided something is terrifyingly efficient.
