Chapter 8 - The Grand Suite
The penthouse suite on the thirty-second floor of the Grand Hotel was larger than Tessa’s entire apartment building.
Soft white carpets covered the floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a breathtaking view of Central Park covered in a light dusting of late-autumn frost. A marble fireplace crackled softly in the living room, filling the space with the subtle, sweet scent of burning birch wood.
Marco set her small leather overnight bag—which he had discreetly retrieved from her office—on the mahogany bench near the entrance.
“If you need anything at all, Miss Hartley,” Marco said, handing her a small black mobile phone, “press '1'. It routes directly to my team downstairs. Room service has been instructed to charge everything to Mr. Rossy’s master ledger.”
“Thank you, Marco,” Tessa said, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the luxury surrounding her.
Marco tipped his hat politely and stepped out into the hallway, closing the heavy oak door behind him.
Tessa stood alone in the center of the vast, quiet room.
She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows and looked out at the city below. From this height, the roaring, terrifying metropolis looked tiny, quiet, and harmless—like a grid of toy buildings illuminated by millions of tiny, glittering pinpricks of light.
She reached up with her right hand and gently touched the bandage along her neck.
For three years, she had believed that safety was something you bought with silence. She had believed that if she worked hard enough, kept her head down low enough, and paid off enough of Trent’s mistakes, the world would eventually leave her alone.
She had been wrong.
Safety wasn't given to people who hid. Safety was taken by people who refused to break.
She walked into the spacious marble bathroom, turned on the golden spigots of the massive clawfoot bathtub, and poured a generous measure of lavender bath salts into the steaming water.
As she stripped away her heavy wool turtleneck, she stood in front of the full-length mirror.
The bruising was still there—dark purple, yellow, and red against her pale skin. But as she looked at her own reflection, she realized she was no longer searching for ways to cover it up.
She did not need drugstore green corrector anymore.
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She did not need heavy matte foundation.
She was done hiding.
