I changed into a soft silk nightgown and slowly walked toward the bed, the fabric brushing against my skin like a second layer of breath. I had taken the heavy flowers from my hair and let them fall onto the vanity, my fingers tracing the faint aches along my shoulders and neck.
The room felt too large, too empty, the silence pressing against the edges of my thoughts.
"Elaine still hasn't come," I muttered, glancing at the door. "Fine. It's better if she stays away."
Even in the quiet, her absence was a relief. The thought of her as my husband made something in my chest twist. I didn't want her. I didn't want her near me, not like this, not as my spouse, not as my "partner." I wanted distance. I wanted space. I wanted time.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, and Elaine stumbled in, her steps unsteady, her posture heavy. The air thickened instantly with the sharp, acrid scent of alcohol.
