Monica entered the hotel, ignoring the stares, the whispers—too drained to meet a single pair of eyes.
The elevator ride felt endless, the air around her too still, too loud. As soon as she stepped into her suite, she dropped her bag and went straight for the closet.
She didn’t think. She just grabbed everything—shirts, dresses, whatever her hands touched—and flung them into the suitcase like her thoughts: messy, angry, restless.
“I can’t take this anymore,” she snapped to the empty room, voice cracking. “Why does it hurt so much?”
She zipped the bag halfway, shoving it toward the door. It hit the wall with a heavy thud and landed on its side.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her hands were shaking.
She couldn’t stay.
Not in this room. Not in this hotel. Not in this life that felt like it was caving in on her.
She stormed out without glancing back.
Downstairs, the lobby was quiet. Too quiet. As she passed, the receptionist picked up the phone and dialed quickly.
“She’s gone,” the voic
