My steps are faster now.
Faster. The echo of them bounces off the marble walls, chasing me down the hallway like accusations I can't outrun.
Irritation rises in my chest—heat spreading, blooming, threatening to crack my ribs open.
How could he do this? Touch me without permission. Move me while I was asleep.
Like he has the right. Like I belong to him. Like the vows we spoke yesterday—empty, forced, hollow—already give him ownership over my skin.
I need to tell him. Clearly. Directly. The kind of clear that leaves no room for misunderstanding.
I don't like you touching me. Don't do it again.
So he remembers his limits. So next time, he doesn't dare.
I open my bedroom door.
Step inside.
The room still glows with sunlight—golden, warm, almost mocking. Light pours through the curtains like honey, thick and slow, coating everything it touches.
White roses everywhere. Their scent hangs in the air—sweet, cloying, invasive. Like something alive. Watching me. Judging me.
