“Cyrus’s room.” I let the implication fill the air. “But, like, I don’t know how to get there without getting caught—I mean, it’s kind of late …”

“I’ll cover for you,” Daisy says quickly. “If Wang Laoshi asks, I’ll just lie and say you’re asleep.”

I pause in surprise. “Are you sure? Because—please don’t take this the wrong way—if you don’t feel comfortable lying …”

“Oh, I’m a great liar when I want to be,” Daisy assures me. “I used to lie all the time to get out of class presentations.”

I’m still making up my mind when one more message springs onto the screen.

it’ll be just us btw. Oliver was called to attend his father’s event across the city. he won’t be back until the morning.

“Okay, I’m going,” I decide. The fizzing feeling in my blood has raced upward, like soda when you shake it too hard inside the can. I smear some tinted lip balm—the one that tastes like strawberries—over my mouth, then glance down at my pale silk nightgown. It is, by most standards, a bit too flimsy to be worn out anywhere, which makes it perfect for what I’m about to do next.

“Thank you so much—I owe you,” I tell Daisy on my way out, all my photos tucked into the purse in my hand.

“Hey, um, aren’t you going to wear clothes?” she calls after me.

“I’m wearing them,” I call back, adjusting the straps of my nightgown to loosen them further. “These are clothes.” Kind of.

Cyrus’s room is on the other side of the floor. By the time I get there, my nerves have started to fray and my self-consciousness has kicked in, and despite everything I’ve promised myself, it’s not revenge that I’m thinking about. It’s just—him. The prospect of seeing him. Of being in the same room as him. I draw my damp hair down to cover my chest and ring the doorbell, then wait for him to answer.

When he does, his reaction is subdued, but there is a reaction. A flash of something across his face, a breath drawn too fast. He seems to take me in all within a second, then he pulls the door wider to let me inside, reaching down to fetch a pair of slippers for me.

“Wow, nice place,” I joke as I walk into an exact replica of my room in our new hotel, right down to the heavy yellow curtains and patterned carpet and two single beds.

“Thanks, I spent ages decorating,” he deadpans. “Feel free to sit.”

I lower myself onto the couch by the window and lean back against the crimson cushions.

His eyes widen. “Wait,” he says, his voice sharp, panicked. “Not there—”