Chapter one
Twenty Minutes
Room service says twenty minutes.
Sam turns the lock and says, “Plenty.”
You are still wearing the hotel robe. Underneath it is the black outfit Sam asked you to pack and then spent the entire drive pretending not to think about.
The robe is badly tied. This is deliberate.
Sam doesn’t waste time complimenting it.
Instead, they take an envelope from the bedside drawer and slide it across the bed towards you.
Heavy cream paper. Your room number on the front. One sentence written across the flap:
You may ask one question before we start. Make it useful.
You look at the envelope, then at the small black case beside Sam’s suitcase.
It was not there when you unpacked.
“That isn’t hotel stationery,” you say.
“Neither is what’s in the case.”
There is a tiny sound from inside it when Sam moves: glass touching something solid.
You had joked, weeks ago, that you wanted one night where you didn’t have to invent the mood from scratch. No work messages. No scrolling until one of you fell asleep. No reaching for the same familiar move simply because neither of you had the energy to think of another.
Apparently Sam had listened.
That is already doing something to you.
“One question?”
“One honest answer.”
Sam sits at the foot of the bed. Close enough to touch you, but doesn’t.
The space between you becomes very noticeable.
You turn the envelope over in your hands.
There are two things you want to know.
Only one of them is sensible.
You get one honest answer. What do you ask?
There’s no wrong answer. There may, however, be consequences.