Good girls don’t wake up with hangovers from charity galas.
Ava wakes up with a Damian Kade problem.
No headache. No nausea. Just the lingering, electric ghost of his hand around hers and a black metal card burning a hole in her nightstand drawer.
She stares at the ceiling for a long minute before she moves.
Her phone is a graveyard of missed notifications.
Sixteen texts from Cass. Three from Riley. One from an unknown number she refuses to open yet.
She ignores all of them.
Shower. Hair. Concealer. The standard Moretti armor.
By the time she walks into the kitchen of the penthouse, the smell of espresso and expensive toast is already in the air. Her brothers are arguing over a game score. Vince is at the head of the table, suit jacket on, tie already knotted, scrolling through som
