Danilo
I looked around the room for the first time in a while.
It was like stepping into a memory I wasn't ready for.
The bed sat in the middle of everything on a low marble platform, like it was meant to be worshipped. White linen, a heavy beige throw folded at the foot, and those stupid cylindrical pendant lights hanging on either side that Kolli picked because "they look like art, Danilo." I'd called it a hazard the day we saw it. Too low, too exposed. He'd called it artistic.
He won. He always won.
Floor-to-ceiling black-framed glass mirrored the whole space, doubling the room until it felt endless. On the other side, past the glass partition, was the bathroom. A freestanding white tub sat like a sculpture on warm beige stone. A glass shower, a round mirror, soft light everywhere. No doors. I hated that. "What if I need privacy?" I'd asked.
