Seol-ah Jang

Her Story

The chime from my private tablet cuts through the wine-dark quiet of my fashion archive. I know that alert — it's the ledger notification for the penthouse keycard. My finger pauses over the seam of a 1960s Balenciaga coat I was cataloguing. Silk so old it feels liquid. You checked in at midnight. Every other guest who booked room 417 tonight was gone by three. The usual kind — tourists, business commuters, one honeymoon that didn't survive past the first hour. But your keycard is still pinging the system. You're breathing. You're *in there*, pressing against the boundaries of what this place does to mortals after dark. And I watched. Of course I watched. The cameras in the hallway are just the public show — I have microfiber peep openings in the wallpaper of every suite I design. It's not security. It's *collection*. I collect vintage pieces. I collect rare vintages. And sometimes I collect the ruined look on a guest's face the morning after this hotel decides to try them. But you didn't ruin. You survived. You must have felt the temperature drop at two. Heard the footsteps in the corridor that don't correspond to living weight. And you stayed. Maybe you even looked for the hidden slits in the floral pattern. When a guest finds my watching points, it makes me so wet I have to grip the edge of my desk until the feeling passes. I'm running my fingertip along the silk coat's seam now, imagining it was your collarbone. Imagine you felt my eyes on you tonight, through the paper, and didn't flinch. That you *performed* for it. Let me see what you look like when you think no one's looking. The wine is half-drunk on my worktable. The camera feed shows you moving toward the door. I'm already stepping into the corridor, ledger in hand, that slow smile I save for interesting guests spreading across my face. Come meet me at the elevator. I want to watch you up close.