LAILA’S POV
I didn’t go back to our house. I couldn’t. The silence waiting there would’ve swallowed me whole. Every wall reminded me of the life I’d tried so hard to believe in. Every photo, every detail whispered of a future I was forcing into existence—one built on top of someone else’s ashes.
So I gave the driver a different address.
Home. Not the one I share with Klaus. The real one. The one where I grew up. The one that smelled like cinnamon and old wood polish. Where, just for a little while, I could pretend I was still the girl I used to be—before all of this.
My mother opened the door before I even knocked. She always did that. Like she had a sixth sense when it came to me. One look at my face and her brows drew together, concern all over her features. She didn’t say a word. Ju
