I woke up to a suspicious silence.
No blaring alarms. No Maya yelling about coffee. No guards pacing like I was some mafia Rapunzel in her ivory tower.
Too quiet.
I sat up slowly, hair a wild mess, mascara from last night still clinging to my lashes like it paid rent. My silk robe hung off one shoulder, and the sunlight pouring through the massive windows had the audacity to be blinding.
“Maya?” I called out.
Nothing.
I stepped out of bed, barefoot on marble, and padded through the hallway of the mansion like the ghost of chaotic weekends past. When I finally reached the kitchen, she was there—slumped over the counter, face buried in her arms.
“Is this about the wine or the fact that we might get murdered for hosting a sleepover in a mafia man’s fortress?”
She groaned. “Both.”
I s
