Standing in front of the hotel feels like standing at the edge of a cliff. I thought I had left this place behind for good—along with everything it represented.
I should be in my tiny apartment, curled up in my bed. Instead, I’m staring at the glowing "Wildwood Hotel" sign, the place I swore I’d never step foot in again. My stomach churns, and I clench my fists. A part of me—a part I hate—is craving to see Elijah again. His name alone sends a shiver down my spine.
I hate myself for it.
I glance at Adam, who’s leaning casually against the front desk, a smug look plastered across his face as he checks us in. I want to throttle him. The bile rises in my throat at the thought of being called Mrs. Adams.
“Why are you standing there like a lost puppy? Come on, we need to check into our room,
