Layla's pov
The rose sits on my windowsill like a silent threat.
A message. A warning. A promise.
I hold my phone tightly, my fingers frigid as I go over the message again.
“I'll see you shortly.”
My abdomen churns. My heart beats so fiercely it aches.
I compel myself to shift, to take action, to do something.
I take the rose with trembling hands and rush out of my room, my breathing irregular. The hallway is eerily quiet, with the soft glow of the chandeliers making the shadows stretch longer.
Damian's room is situated at the corridor's end. My bare feet move quietly on the ground as I open the door without any knocking.
He’s awake. Sitting at the edge of his bed.
His head snaps up, eyes locking onto mine instantly.
“Layla?” His voice is rough, low, but there’s an edge to it.
