"Mr. Holloway, is it alright now?"
Cynthia squinted into the darkness, trying to make out the man's silhouette in the shadows.
Dominic didn't answer.
She pressed her lips together, wondering if he'd finally drunk himself into a stupor and passed out.
After a moment's hesitation, she started toward him.
But just as she'd taken two steps, his deep voice cut through the darkness, sounding almost like a reprimand.
"Get out."
She froze, instinctively glancing toward the door.
Get out?
Did he mean her?
"Me?"
"Yeah." His response was little more than a raspy grunt.
"Then I'll just—let me help you with—"
The room was pitch-black, and with as much as he'd had to drink, if he hurt himself in her room, she'd never forgive herself.
"Out."
This time, his single word was laced with something she couldn't quite read—frustration, maybe, or something else entirely.
Cynthia quickly retreated, slipping out of the room.
It was her room, and yet somehow she was the one being kicked out.
Who was she supposed to complain to about that?
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