I stared at the remnants of dried blood on my hotel room door, now being scrubbed away by a uniformed staff member whose eyes never quite met mine. The crimson letters had spelled out "NOT MY QUEEN" in what I knew was not paint but actual blood—Benjamin Thorne's idea of a calling card. My fingertips tingled with a strange numbness, but my chest burned with something heavier, something that settled between my ribs and sank down into my stomach. The weight of consequences. The acid taste of blame.
Theo stood beside me, his shoulder close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him without actually touching. His presence was both comfort and anchor, keeping me from drifting into the darker currents of my thoughts. The hallway buzzed with activity—security personnel speaking in hushe
