The robe she wore was short. Not overtly sexual -- not lace or silk, not something sold to be removed -- but there was something quietly devastating about how it clung to her. Soft grey cotton, worn thin at the seams, brushing the tops of her thighs as she sat cross-legged on the bed. One leg tucked under the other, her bare knee slightly raised, the curve of her calf illuminated by the flicker of light through the glass. In her hand, the last inch of white wine swirled lazily in a stemless glass, her wrist rotating with an idle rhythm that said her mind was somewhere else entirely. The...