I could stand up, pull my sweater over my head, step out of my jeans and underwear, then push that door open and climb into whatever ridiculous rainfall shower a man with this much money undoubtedly has. I could press my forehead against his chest and let the hot water run over both of us. He could put his arms around me and hold on and tell me that everything is going to be okay. That the body on my hallway floor doesn’t change anything. What I told him at dinner doesn’t change anything. That we’re going to figure this out, together, because that’s what people do when they—
I pull my knees up onto the mattress and wrap my arms around them, suddenly cold. That’s the fantasy, isn’t it? The real one. Not the kinky ones—this one doesn’t need masks or belts or hard, bruising welts to make me
