Blair Davenport stared at the words she had just sent until the screen dimmed and went black in her hand.
Go to sleep, Monroe.
She had typed it as an order. Reading it back in the dark, it sounded far too much like a goodnight, which was an entirely different category of message and one she had never sent to anyone in eighteen years.
She considered unsending it.
The app allowed that for fifteen minutes, and she had read the terms of service twice in September when a Ruby boy kept messaging her about study groups.
She left it. Unsending a goodnight would mean admitting it had been a goodnight in the first place.
The penthouse sat silent around her, every surface clean and expensive and untouched. Moonlight came through the floor-to-ceiling glass and laid a pale stripe across the bed, across the white duvet she had not slept under yet, across her own bare legs where they stuck out from the hem of the grey crew neck.
