SCARLETT
Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains, warm and golden, brushing the edges of the bed where I lay curled on my side. My eyes were swollen from crying. My throat ached. My chest felt tight, like I’d been punched and left hollow. I hadn’t slept. Not really. I dozed in small, haunted pockets of time, only to jolt awake, drenched in cold sweat, with echoes of last night still replaying in my head.
Zayden. Vincent. The accusations. The silence. The look in Zayden’s eyes when I asked if he let this happen. That quiet betrayal buried deep inside his refusal to answer.
I wasn’t sure what hurt more: what Vincent had said—or what Zayden hadn’t.
The floor creaked softly. I didn’t have to look up to know it was Zayden. His footsteps were always measured. Calm. Like he wanted to a
