The Promotion

Chapter Fourteen

I drifted back to consciousness slowly, as though I was swimming up from the bottom of a deep, dark pool. My eyes stayed shut, heavy and stubborn. I wiggled my fingers, shifted my legs, tilted my head—small movements, just to reassure myself I was still here. Still alive. Still in one piece.

My mouth felt like sandpaper. I licked my lips and swallowed, immediately wincing. It felt like my throat was lined with thorns. A small cough escaped me, but it made my stomach roll violently. I froze, breathing carefully through my nose, lips pressed tight while I fought down the wave of nausea.

Don't be sick.
Not yet.
Not here.

A headache pulsed behind my eyes—sharp and relentless—like my skull was too small for my brain. It took every ounce of strength to open my eyes.

When I finally managed it, brightness stabbed through my vision. I shut them again instantly, groaning. After a few seconds, I tried once more, blinking until the light stopped feeling like a weapon.

I didn't recognise where I was.

Keeping my head still, I moved only my eyes, scanning the room in slow motion. The ceiling was unfamiliar. The air smelled clean—too clean. Not my apartment. Not Sarah's.

My heart began to thud in warning.

Carefully, I pushed myself upright. My body protested. The room tilted slightly, and I gripped the edge of the mattress until the dizziness eased. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat there, hunched forward, head in my hands.

That's when I noticed the oversized T-shirt hanging off me.

My stomach dropped.

Memories began to stitch themselves together, clumsy and jagged. A mansion. A crowd. Classical music. Crystal glasses. The black dress with the slit. Alexander. My grief. My anger. My drinking.

And then—

His arms.

The warmth of him. The safety of his chest. My head against his neck.

I lifted my head slowly, dread and embarrassment crawling up my spine.

I stood, wobbling slightly, and took in the bedroom properly.

It was understated but undeniably expensive. Plain off-white walls. A soft grey carpet that looked untouched. A large double bed with a curved upholstered headboard in pale grey. A single wide window on the right wall, fitted with cream-coloured blinds. Opposite the bed sat a white dressing table with a matching stool tucked neatly underneath, everything arranged with a careful simplicity that screamed control.

There were two doors. One near the dressing table—likely the exit. Another beside the bed.

I opened the second door and stepped into a bathroom.

It was just as minimal. Cream porcelain tiles on the floor and walls. A white toilet, a sink beneath a mirrored cabinet, and across from it a bathtub beside a glass shower enclosure. The kind of bathroom that looked like it belonged in a hotel suite—not lived in, not personal, simply... pristine.

I walked to the mirror, bracing my hands on the sink.

I barely recognised myself.

My hair was a tangled mess, like I'd been dragged through a storm. My face looked pale and drained, as though someone had stolen all the colour from it. No makeup. Puffy eyes. A hollow expression that made my chest ache.

I turned away, swallowing hard.

As I closed the bathroom door, I noticed a clothing bag hanging neatly from a hook, and beneath it—a note.