Bedtime

The credits have finished scrolling and the screen has gone dark, leaving the living room lit only by the warm glow of table lamps and the last amber streaks of sunset through the windows. You close Margot's book, set it on the coffee table, and stretch your legs out, feeling the silk shorts shift against your thighs.

At ten sharp, HAVEN's voice fills the room.

"Chloe, your evening skincare routine is scheduled. Shall I prepare the bathroom?"

"Go ahead," you say, pushing yourself off the sectional.

In the bathroom, you settle into the chair that folds out from the vanity wall—LUXE's extension into this space, a smaller station for end-of-day maintenance. The robotic arm extends with its familiar precision: a warm micellar water cleanse, followed by a foaming gel that smells faintly of green tea and cucumber. A soft rotating brush works the cleanser into your skin in slow circles, and you close your eyes, letting the mechanical tenderness wash over you.

This is the weirdest part. How good it feels to just... let it happen.

A toner pad follows, cool and astringent, then a hyaluronic acid serum that feels like liquid silk being pressed into your cheeks, your forehead, the bridge of your nose. An eye cream applied with the lightest touch of a padded fingertip. Finally, a thick night cream massaged in slow upward strokes—jaw to temple, chin to cheekbone.

"Skincare complete, Miss Chloe! Your skin looks so hydrated. I've also applied a leave-in conditioning treatment to your hair—just sleep with it in and rinse in the morning. Sweet dreams!"

You stare at your reflection afterward. Bare-faced, moisturized, glowing in a way your skin has never glowed in your life. The conditioning treatment has been worked through your hair, leaving it slightly damp and fragrant with something coconutty.

Okay. Tomorrow.

You climb into Chloe's bed—the sheets are Egyptian cotton, impossibly soft, and the silk of your camisole whispers against them as you settle in. The overhead light dims automatically.

You lie on your back, phone resting on your chest, and think about Vanessa's call.

She's going to ask how the house is. How I'm doing. Whether I've found work.

You could lie. You've been lying—omitting, anyway. Letting her think everything is normal. Letting her think you're just Riley in cargo shorts, watching TV, eating cereal.

But something about today—the boutique, the book, the movie—makes you want to say something real. Not the whole truth. God, no. Not Aunt Vanessa, I'm wearing your daughter's lingerie and a waiter flirted with me over soup. But something adjacent to the truth.

I'll tell her I'm trying to be a different person.

The thought takes shape as you stare at the ceiling. You studied psychology to understand people. Four years of learning about attachment styles and cognitive biases and the mechanics of empathy—all from behind a clipboard, a one-way mirror, a textbook. You never actually practiced being around people. You were always observing them instead of joining them.

That's not even a lie. That's just... true. True in a way I never let myself articulate before all of this happened.

You'll tell her you're getting a retail job. That you want to interact with people—not as a researcher, but as a person. That you felt isolated in college, detached, like you were always one step removed from the actual experience of living.

And if she asks why retail specifically—why not something in my field—I'll tell her the truth. That understanding people from a clinical distance isn't the same as connecting with them. That I want to learn how to be present.

Your phone buzzes once—a notification from your banking app. You ignore it. The ceiling is dark now, HAVEN having dimmed the lights to sleep mode, and the conditioning treatment is cooling your scalp.

Tomorrow: Theron at eight-ish. Vanessa's call at nine. LUXE session before both.

You close your eyes. The silk sheets settle around you like a cocoon, and for the first time since arriving at this house, you fall asleep without feeling like you're pretending.