Alex woke slowly, awareness returning in uneven fragments rather than all at once.
At first, it was just the room. The unfamiliar ceiling, the way the light fell differently here, brighter and sharper through floor-to-ceiling glass than it ever did in her own apartment. Then came the quiet, expansive and undisturbed, broken only by the faint hum of the city far below. It grounded her for a moment, let her exist in something simple before the rest of it caught up.
And then it did. The gala. The terrace.
Callan.
The memory surfaced with uncomfortable clarity. The way the warmth of his hand felt against her face, the way his voice had sounded when he said her name, lower than she had ever heard. It was roughened at the edges in a way that hadn’t felt practiced or controlled.
And the fact
