The next morning, Elira woke before the sun.
Damian’s side of the bed was empty, still warm. The sheets smelled like him—sandalwood and storm—and she hated that it comforted her, even after everything.
She slipped out of bed, wrapping one of his shirts around herself. It hung off her frame, swallowing her like a ghost of their past. She caught her reflection in the mirror.
Not the same girl who had once begged for his affection.
Not the same woman who had run.
This version of her? She was strategy. Steel wrapped in silk.
She padded to the kitchen, drawn by the low murmur of voices. The scent of espresso filled the air.
Damian stood at the island, speaking low into his phone, his tie still loose and hair slightly damp. The image of power half-dressed.
She leaned against the doorfram
