Jackson had been waiting outside the hotel, pacing nervously. When he finally saw Emily returning, he quickly walked over, draping a warm coat over her shoulders. His face was etched with concern as he frowned. "Why did you come back so late? I’ve been worried sick." Emily, now known as Miranda, let him guide her inside, though Jackson held her a little too tightly for her liking. She politely freed herself from his embrace, her tone composed. “I’m fine, really. I wasn’t cold. Have Bert and Amy come back yet?” Sensing her subtle rejection, Jackson’s hand dropped limply to his side, his expression tinged with a hint of disappointment. "They’ve been back for a while. They were both worried about you and asked me to let them know the moment you returned." Miranda nodded, knowing her Uncle Bert had just arrived. Having him face such an unexpected situation on his first day surely unsettled him. "I’ll go straight to see him then. What room is he staying in?" she asked. "Room 1805. I’m in 1806, and you and Amy are in 1807. I made all the arrangements." Miranda paused for a moment, thinking. “I’m really tired and would prefer to get a proper rest. Could you book me a separate room?” Jackson considered this and nodded. Amy was sweet but loud, and he understood that her boisterous energy could disrupt Miranda's much-needed sleep. "I’ll head down to the front desk and book one for you." “No need,” she responded quickly. “I’ve got my passport. I can take care of it myself.” With that, Miranda walked briskly to the hotel reception, handing her documents to the receptionist. “Good evening, I’d like to book a room, please.” The receptionist smiled and took her passport. "Certainly, Miss. Do you have any specific room preferences?" "A window room, but on the shaded side. I don’t like too much sunlight." The receptionist typed for a moment and then said, “We only have one room left that meets your request, Room 2307. Would that be acceptable?” Room 2307. Miranda flinched at the number, her heart tightening with sudden, sharp pain. That number held memories, memories of a time she wanted to forget. But this wasn’t Hilton in her hometown, and Satan wouldn’t be waiting in room 2307 here. No tender nights or sudden catastrophes like the fire that had ended it all. Before she could answer, Jackson interjected. "Isn’t there anything available on the 18th floor? We’d like to stay close together since we’re traveling as a group." “I’m afraid not. The hotel is quite full. The only window room on a shaded side is 2307. We do have several rooms on the sunny side, including one on the 18th floor. Miss, would you like one of those instead?” “No,” Miranda interrupted, her voice firm but apologetic. “I’ll take 2307, please.” The receptionist nodded, processed the booking, and handed over the keycard. "Here’s your room key, Miss Carter. Enjoy your stay." A bellhop appeared, offering to help with her bags, but Miranda politely declined. "No need, thank you. I don’t have much with me." "Miranda..." Jackson trailed behind her, his worried gaze flickering over her. "Are you sure you want to stay on the 23rd floor by yourself? It’s not safe." Miranda felt a headache starting to build. "Jackson, I’m really exhausted. I just want to get some rest, take a shower, and sleep. I’ll lock the door. You don’t have to worry, okay?" Her voice was laden with fatigue, and Jackson, recognizing how drained she was, softened. She’d been through a lot today, from the intense pressure of the architecture award ceremony to dealing with the aftermath of the car accident. “Alright, just make sure to call me if you need anything.” Miranda nodded as the elevator chimed and stopped on the 18th floor. Jackson hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave her. “I’ll just walk you up—” “No,” Miranda cut him off. “Please, just go tell Uncle Bert and Amy I’m fine. I don’t want to see anyone right now. I just want to sleep.” "Okay," Jackson agreed reluctantly, stepping out of the elevator. As the doors slid shut, his concerned gaze lingered on her until the last possible moment. The elevator continued its ascent to the 23rd floor. Miranda stepped out, scanning the hallway for her room. She found 2307 tucked away at the end of the corridor, its windows casting a dim glow in the evening light. It wasn’t much, but it suited her perfectly. The lack of light, the quiet solitude—it reminded her of the time she’d spent at Hilton in Room 2307. Those nights spent in near darkness had become a comfort. Darkness had a way of soothing her, helping her keep her mind from drifting into places she didn’t want to revisit. Even a sliver of light could make her restless.She set her bag down on the coffee table, taking in the dim, cozy room. She headed for the bathroom, needing to wash off the events of the day. As the hot water flowed over her, Miranda stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her gaze fell to the scar on her abdomen, a ten-centimeter reminder of everything she had lost. The scar was redder than the rest of her skin, standing out more under the water’s scrutiny. This was where she had carried her first child. Seven months old, already fully formed. A boy, as Jackson had told her. But because of the accident, because of the impact, her abdomen had suffered internal trauma. Her child had suffocated inside her womb. The doctors had removed him from her, and... probably discarded him as medical waste. A wave of overwhelming pain surged through her, forcing her to crouch down, her strength sapped. She felt like a knife had been driven into her heart, twisting and tearing, the weight of the past suffocating her all over again. There had been a time when she wanted to confront Satan, to grab him by the collar and demand answers. Why had he given up on their child? Were all those moments they shared, the love they had, just an illusion? Jackson had stopped her from going back. “Miranda, the day you lost the baby, I saw Satan in the hotel lobby with another woman,” Jackson had told her. “She looked just like you—same style, same everything. I confronted him, but he told me I had no right to question him.” Through Jackson’s description, Miranda knew it had been Penelope, the woman who had once been part of Satan’s life. But why had he gone to see her while Miranda was resting upstairs? And why, of all times, had the kitchen gas leak and fire started just then? Everything had lined up too perfectly. It no longer mattered, though. None of it did. This wasn’t Hilton’s Room 2307. And she wasn’t Emily anymore. She was Miranda now.