The sun was barely a gray smudge over the Pacific when I crept out of Roman’s suite. My bare feet were silent on the cold marble, and every tiny rustle of my silk dress sounded like a gunshot in the dead quiet of the hallway. I didn't look back to see if he was still sitting in that chair by the door. I just needed to get behind my own locks before the house staff started their morning rounds.
I made it. I spent an hour standing under a freezing shower, trying to scrub the scent of his cedarwood cologne and that cramped closet off my skin. By the time I dressed for school—black jeans and a sweater that felt like armor—I looked exactly like the "Pure Angel" the public expected.
But my eyes were hollow, and my stomach was in knots.
The breakfast nook was flooded with bright, unforgiving m
