Armani
The sunlight filtering through the half-drawn curtains felt like an accusation. I rolled away from it, burying my face deeper into the pillow that no longer smelled like her. How long had it been since Rena walked out? Two days? Three? Time had blurred into a meaningless haze of self-loathing and regret.
My throat burned with thirst, but the thought of moving seemed impossible. There was a glass of water somewhere—Marta, our housekeeper, had left it before I'd growled at her to leave me alone—but reaching for it required more energy than I possessed.
The bedroom still held Rena's ghost. Her perfume lingered in the air, fading but present enough to torture me with every breath. The indent of her head on the pillow beside mine had long since disappeared, but I could still see it,
