Mikayla POV
I lie on my side, watching the clouds drift past my window. The world outside feels too bright, too cheerful—the birdsong, the laughter of the neighbors—all of it grates against the heaviness inside me.
After getting Tripp up the stairs and into bed last night, I collapsed onto my own squeaky mattress. I must’ve fallen asleep fast, because the next thing I remember is the dream.
Normally, it’s Max who shows up—I feel his knife slicing into my gut night after night. But last night was different.
I blink at the ceiling now, tracing the faint cracks in the plaster like they might ground me. Morning light should feel soft and welcoming, but today it burns.
Because last night, it wasn’t Max holding the knife.
It was Rafe.
His beautiful face twisted with hatred and disgust.
