She Healed Her Wounds in Silk and Charged Him Interest

They told me silk was for sleeping, as if a woman's worth were measured in the hours she spent unconscious. I wear it awake, leaning on cold marble like a verdict, because the city outside my window is full of men who promise warmth and deliver only weather reports.
My ex used to say healing takes time. Wrong. Healing takes a single strap that slides off one shoulder just enough to make you remember your own body belongs to you, not to his itinerary. The roses in that vase are plastic-cheap; the real fragrance is my skin under this champagne fabric, warming itself by friction with the air.
So I healed. Not with a fairy godmother's clockwork midnight, but with a cold calculation: every touch he will ever give me must be paid for in attention, in silence held long enough to ache, in the way his breath stutters when the slit of my dress rises an inch above where it should. Romance is just desire wearing a polite mask; I removed the mask and let the heat do the talking.
He is coming home tonight. Good. Let him find me glowing at the counter like a candle that decided to burn for itself first, and only then consider lighting his way.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach