Layla
Bright morning sun cast a golden glow over the sprawling Marcello estate as I stepped out of Aldo’s car and onto the flagstone driveway. The manor loomed up over me like a harbinger of doom cast in a breathtaking sheath of stone and carved marble.
Reminding me, as if I needed the reminder, of how this would permanently become my world.
As if the lingering aches weren’t enough. As if the weeks of recovery and therapy behind me, and still ahead, weren’t enough.
My hands clenched into fists at my sides as I stared up at that hateful house. This was my world now—and I was determined to survive.
It was time to adapt. Just as I always had—after my parents had died, after Vasco had left me. I was good at adapting, at carving myself into whatever I needed to be to survive. To thrive.
