The next morning, sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains of the Roy mansion. Malik was in the kitchen, apron on, the pan’s sizzle a comfort amid the storm. He hummed softly, focusing on the rhythmic flip of the omelet—a small, ordered world where he remained in control.
His mind, however, circled back to the previous night and the weight of the recording in his possession. How do I make her see the truth without pushing her further away? The question had kept him awake long after Sarah had retreated upstairs.
Soft footsteps approached. Sarah appeared in the doorway, her hair loosely tied and wearing one of his old shirts. The sight was so disarmingly domestic it made his chest ache.
"You're up early," he said, keeping his tone light.
She offered a soft, almost shy smile. "I could
