CHAPTER THIRTY ONETHE MORNING AFTER
Arielle stirred as dawn pushed its way through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Damien's penthouse. She blinked against the soft light, realizing with a start that she had fallen asleep on his couch, still in yesterday's clothes. The room was quiet, save for the ticking of a sleek, modern clock on the wall and the low hum of the city waking up below. Her mind immediately drifted back to the night before—Damien, drunk and heartbroken, whispering, "Don’t leave me alone, Arielle," into her ear. She touched her lips, still remembering the way he kissed her. It hadn't been just alcohol-fueled recklessness. It had been desperate, intense, and confusing. She sighed, stood, and quietly walked to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water. The penthouse was beautiful, minimalist, and cold. Too perfect
- Writer
