The Sterling mansion was silent.
Not the quiet of peace, but the suffocating quiet of wealth and control, a silence that echoed off marble floors and gold-framed portraits like a judge’s gavel. Even the wind seemed afraid to disturb it.
Ivy lay in her room, staring at the ceiling. The silk of her gown clung to her bruised side, pressed uncomfortably against the tender rib that refused to let her forget last night’s events. Pain radiated with each shallow breath, a relentless reminder that even perfection had limits.
She had tried to sleep. Really, she had. But each shift in the sheets made her wince; every movement reminded her of Killian’s presence, of Silas’s silent watch over her, and of the sharp sting from her side.
She had no choice.
Pulling on a simple robe, Ivy left the safety
