Where the Marble Remembers Warmth

The marble under my skin is cold, but it knows how to hold me. I lie here in the hush of a penthouse that cost more than most cities' winters, legs stretched toward a window where the city blurs into gold and glass. My black heels still carry the day's weight; my black lace still carries its secrets.
I used to think solitude was an absence. Now I understand it as a curated presence—diamond-encrusted, silent, mine alone. The glass table above holds a handbag no one will open today. The leather sofa breathes beside me like a patient lover who never asks.
Then his voice, three rooms away, soft as champagne poured over ice: 'Come back to me when you are ready.' I do not move. I let the warmth of that single sentence travel through the cold marble and into my bones, healing the small fractures no one can see. In this elite silence, I am finally whole.

Editor: Champagne Noir