Page 55 of Valentino

His gaze flicks between us, sharp and unreadable, and something seems to settle behind his eyes. Without a word, he turns and walks away, disappearing down the hall with the same calm detachment he'd arrived with.

The whole exchange lasts only a few seconds, but it stretches long enough to break whatever had been building between us.

Valentino steps back. The air comes flooding into the space between us, and I can breathe again.

"The bathroom," I say. My voice is steadier now. I tug the hem of the shirt I'm swimming in. "Where is it?"

Something flickers across his face. Regret, maybe.

"This way," he says.

He turns down the hall, and I follow. He stops at a door, pushes it open, and reaches in to switch on the light.

A cramped little bathroom. Dingy white tile with darkened grout, an old claw-foot tub, and a window too small for anything but light.

There's a mirror over the sink, cracked clean down the middle.

I look away before I can see myself in it.

"Towels are under the sink," Valentino says behind me, careful. "I'll leave clothes outside the door. Take however long you need."

I step inside and turn to face him in the doorway, this huge man filling the frame, blood on his knuckles and an apology he won't say sitting in the set of his jaw.

"Valentino," I say.

He waits. I forget what I wanted to say.

"Thank you," I say instead.

He nods once and pulls the door shut between us.

I use the toilet, and relief hits so fast I have to sit there for a second afterward.

I turn the taps. The pipes groan. I sit on the cold edge of the tub while it fills and watch the steam start to fog the room. I tell myself this is fine. I tell myself I've handled worse.

Men who heard no and treated it like a challenge. Hands on my waist after I moved them. Bodies blocking exits. Smiles that stopped being friendly the second I tried to leave.

I got out.

I always get out.

I peel off the shirt and let it fall to the floor before climbing into the tub. The water's almost too hot, but I want it to hurt a little.

I find the soap, some plain white bar, and start with my arms. Then my shoulders. Then my neck. The side of it. The place his tongue⁠—

I scrub harder.

It starts young, learning where to stand and how to smile and when to leave. You learn which doors not to walk through. Which men not to be alone with. How to say no without making him angry. How to laugh just enough. How to stay polite without giving anything away.

Most days, it sits so deep in you that you forget you're doing it.

Then a night like the palazzo happens, and you remember.

You were never imagining the danger. You were only surviving around it.

I scrub my collarbone until my skin burns.

I was polite.