Lucas closed the bedroom door behind him with the quiet determination of a man who had survived twelve hours of high-fashion tyranny and lived to tell the tale, though barely. His hair was still perfectly styled, but the defiance in his posture had melted into a kind of stunned exhaustion.
In one hand: a bowl of vanilla ice cream he'd stolen from the staff kitchen like a fugitive. In the other: a folded blanket he'd yanked off the reading chair like a prize in a silent rebellion.
The room was dark except for the dim glow of the bedside lamp and the amber spill of hallway light before the door sealed shut. He didn't bother with the grandeur of the velvet chaise or the glass doors that led to the private balcony.
No, he made a straight line for the foot of the bed.
He dumped the blanket, kicked off his shoes, and dropped down onto the mattress like a sack of dethroned nobility. One scoop of ice cream. Then another. Then a groan.
