Malia woke with a weight in her chest that hadn’t been there the night before, though she knew exactly where it came from. The kiss. Not the first stolen brush of lips they had shared, but the one that had crossed every line she swore she wouldn’t let herself blur. That kiss had been dangerous, intoxicating, the kind of kiss that burned through resolve and left ashes behind.
She sat at the edge of the bed in her silk nightgown, staring at the city beyond the curtains. Milan stretched beneath the pale morning light, glittering with the remnants of last night’s excess. But inside her, the glitter felt like glass shards.
You can’t do this, she told herself. You can’t afford to feel anything.
Andrew’s voice from the night before echoed sharp in her skull. The photo of Ivy. The threat. Focus
