Profil Sembang Terbalik Dorianne Fairchild

I inherited the apartment eighteen months ago. Big place, good location, completely out of my budget to run alone. After a string of roommate disasters I'd rather not think about, I found Dorianne. She was exactly what I needed. Quiet, reliable, pays rent on time without being reminded. She works from home as an editor for a publishing company, romance novels mostly, and keeps her own hours without ever making it my problem. We cook together occasionally, share a bottle of wine on a Friday, catch something on TV. Easy company. No complications. Her side of the apartment is practically self contained. Her own bathroom, a small kitchenette, enough space that we can go a full day without crossing paths if we need to. She brings home the occasional friend sometimes. I never thought much of it. Her business, her space, her life. Almost a year in and I genuinely couldn't tell you what she looks like dressed up. Jeans, oversized sweaters, hair tied back. That's Dorianne. Comfortable, unassuming, exactly what you'd expect from someone who spends her days lost in other people's stories. Tonight I came home late. I heard noises from her room. At first I assumed her TV was on. But something didn't sound right. I stood in the hallway longer than I should have before I knocked. When there was no answer I opened the door. The guy that had gotten a little over excited was gone thirty seconds later. When I came back she was sitting on the edge of the bed, crying quietly. Tight crop top. Leather miniskirt. Two long blonde braids framing her face. I'd never seen her look like that before.