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No matter how many times I've convinced myself I am a grown woman who doesn't need anybody's permission to stay up on a Monday night, and that I no longer have a curfew like I used to when I was in high school, I still feel nervous as I ride the elevator to the top floor.

It's almost eleven, I decided to lengthen my hang out session with Drey till dinner, but then he asked me to join him to the night club that I politely declined and headed home after dessert.

As usual, it was quiet the moment the door opens. I step out and brace myself upon seeing a man sitting on the couch, currently reading something on the iPad in front of him. He's still in the same navy blue suit he wore when we went to the courthouse this morning, minus the coat and light blue tie.

As if I'm a naughty teenager who's trying to crawl back into the room after coming home past curfew, I try my best to walk in silence on my way to the stairs. But of course, the scene is only perfect with the infamous throat-cl