Layla’s POV
The café was quiet. Almost too quiet.
The kind of place with soft jazz playing in the background and dusty books lining the shelves like forgotten memories. I chose the table by the window. Not because I liked the view, but because I wanted to see her coming.
Verena.
Even thinking her name left a bitter taste in my mouth. I hadn’t slept properly since the gala. My thoughts were tangled knots of rage and confusion. She’d shown up like a ghost dressed in black—then vanished just as quickly. But not before leaving behind something even worse than her absence.
Questions.
Now she wanted a meeting. “Just to talk,” she’d said. Just to “explain.”
I shouldn’t have agreed.
But curiosity is a dangerous thing when it’s tied to old wounds.
The bell above the café door jingled, and
