The Negotiation

The lock on the guest room door was old brass, the kind that required a firm twist and a prayer. Isabella twisted it twice, then pressed her shoulder against the wood until she heard the mechanism catch. The sound was smaller than she wanted. Less final.

She stood in the center of the room with her arms wrapped around herself, breathing through her nose. The space was elegant in a way that felt like a threat. Cream walls, heavy drapes, a four-poster bed with sheets so white they seemed to glow in the dim light from the hallway. Someone had left fresh flowers on the vanity. Roses. They smelled like a funeral.