The morning after the gala, the whole house was awake earlier than I expected. Daniel was already in the kitchen, sipping black coffee like he’d done this every day of his life, and I was still in the half-daze of heels, flashing cameras, and polite compliments echoing in my head.
“You survived last night,” he said without looking up.
“I did. Barely.” I slid off the sofa, grabbing my cardigan.
“You okay?”
“Yes,” I said quickly. Too quickly, maybe. My stomach gave a little twist, and I froze for a second.
“Hmm?” he asked, finally noticing me.
“Nothing,” I lied.
But it wasn’t nothing. The gala, the walking, the little bit of champagne I had sipped — all of it was heavier on me than I thought. My body was reminding me, subtly but insistently, that there was more than just my usual self
