Liana’s POV
The alarm screamed at 6:45 a.m.
I slapped it silent before it could finish the first note.
My flat smelled like lilies and cold coffee. The black box sat empty on the counter—petals long gone down the drain, but the scent clung anyway, stubborn and sweet. I stood under the shower until the water ran cold, trying to wash away the night’s decisions.
I was going.
Not because I trusted him.
Because I needed to see his face when he lied.
Or when he didn’t.
Black jeans. Soft grey sweater that hugged in all the right places. Hair down, wild curls still damp from the shower. Lipstick the color of blood. If I was walking into a trap, I’d look like the one setting it.
The coffee shop was fifteen minutes from my door. Small, tucked between a newsagent and a dry cleaner. Floor-to-
