Sarah
My hands tremble as I follow Vincent into the spacious bathroom, lined with marble and adorned with gold fixtures. He has a firm grip on my arm, pulling me along like a disobedient child. I don't resist, knowing I am the one at fault here for ruining his suit jacket.
I'm dabbing at Vincent's jacket with a wad of damp paper towels, trying to blot out the dark stain that's spread like a shadow across the fabric. The sharp scent of the gravy mixes with the sterile tang in the air of the bathroom, and I'm hyper-aware of his gaze on me—disapproving, cold.
"Careful," he snaps as I press too hard, and a fresh wave of the savory scent hits my nostrils. "You're just making it worse."
The jacket feels stiff under my fingers, the fine material clearly not meant for clumsy hands or makeshift
