5
PEYTON
The honeymoon suite is so quiet I hear the blood pounding in my ears. A vast living area opens up on the right. Everything is cream and gold and plush. The bed linens and pillows are a stark white that hurts the eyes. It makes my tattered gown seem even dirtier by comparison. I’m a wild-haired creature, haunting a space designed for joy.
And while I’m not exactly happy, at least I’m not as miserable as I was twenty minutes ago. The room is warm, clean, and free of judgmental stares.
Baby steps. Now I only need to get out of this dress and take a long bath.
I reach behind my back, fumbling for the hidden zipper. My fingers find it easily enough. I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger and tug.
Nothing happens.
I pull harder, but the zipper doesn’t budge. I twist my arm at an angle that sends a sharp protest through my shoulder and yank again.
“Come on, you bastard,” I mutter.
I contort my body, grunting, bending forward, then backward to find a position with a better grip where my wrist can twist with enough force to unstick whatever has gotten stuck. The delicate lace strains against my movements. I want it to rip, but it doesn’t budge.
I kick out in frustration, but the mountain of tulle wraps around my legs, tripping me. I stumble, catching myself on nothing, and collapse onto the ridiculously thick carpet.
I roll on my back in a heap of soiled silk and lie as a bridal starfish on a sea of plush beige carpet until a knock at the door jolts me back to the present.
My first thought is it’s him. The obnoxious rider has come to take the room away. He’ll throw me out into the cold.
But then a muffled voice calls out, “Concierge.”
I struggle to my feet, fighting with my skirts, and get the door.
Adam is standing in the hallway, holding a large silver tray with my shoes perched next to a phone charger, its cord neatly coiled.
I take the things and thank him. He asks me if I need anything else, and, after ordering the greasiest burger they have on the menu and a mountain of fries—deferred so I can soak in the tub first—I tell him, “Another small thing.”
Adam braces himself, shoulders tensing under his uniform jacket.
“I know I have tested the limits of your professional patience tonight. But please take a deep breath and do me one last favor.”
Adam swallows, his expression brave. “What is it you need, ma’am?”
“You have to unzip my dress.”
His face cycles through several expressions in rapid succession—surprise, alarm quickly derailing into existentialdread—before settling on denial. “That wouldn’t be appropriate, ma’am.”
“Adam,” I plead. “If you don’t want me to suffocate in this thing and get rolled out of here in an ambulance, please help me.”
His jaw works before he gives a curt, decisive nod. He sets the silver tray on the console table by the door and steps into the room.
I turn around, presenting my back, my shoulders rigid with awkwardness. Tentative fingers brush against my skin. They’re surprisingly warm. He grasps the tiny tab, and with a smooth, decisive pull, the zipper slides down my spine.
The release is instantaneous and glorious.
Air rushes into my lungs, a deep, soul-shaking breath that feels like the first one I’ve taken since morning. The pressure on my ribs vanishes. Relief floods my body, making me dizzy.
“Oh, thank you,” I breathe, sagging against the doorframe. “Thank you so much. I thought I was going to die in that thing.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am.” He’s already backing away, grabbing his tray. Adam flees the room without a backward glance.
I close the door, lean against it, and just breathe unrestrained for a minute.
