The world had only just begun catching its breath after the last round of explosions. Veronica’s schemes were unraveling, piece by piece, but so too were old wounds, ripped open in the process of surviving.
Celeste stood in the sun-drenched kitchen of Damien’s penthouse, a mug of chamomile tea forgotten in her hands. The city glittered outside, calm and unaware, but inside her chest, it felt like everything was shifting.
The past wouldn’t stop knocking. The future felt unknown. But the present was Damien.
He stepped in behind her, freshly showered from a rare few hours of sleep, still bare-chested, his heart tattoo on his shoulder, glistening against the light. He had on only his soft black lounge pants. His gaze dropped to her untouched tea, then to her distant stare.
“You didn’t get
