By morning, her rage had settled into something colder. Sharper.
She didn’t sleep. Didn’t even try.
Instead, Isla spent the early hours pacing the penthouse like a caged animal, every step echoing with the memory of those photographs burned into her mind.
Suite 1702.
Valeria.
Damien’s hand.
That look in his eyes.
Not guilt.
Not regret.
Something darker.
Something she couldn’t unsee.
***
Gabriel found her in the kitchen around dawn, sipping black coffee like it could burn the truth out of her throat.
He stopped when he saw her, his eyes slipping slightly as he took her in… rumpled sweater, bare feet, and exhaustion curling under her eyes like bruises.
“You look like hell,” he said softly, moving toward the fridge.
“I feel worse,” Isla murmured, not looking at him.
He poured
