Lena
Three days passed without seeing Damien.
Which should have brought relief.
Instead, it felt like withdrawal.
I hated that realization enough to aggressively deep-clean my kitchen at midnight.
Twice.
My house still carried traces of him.
Smoke.
Whiskey.
The ghost of expensive cologne tangled into my couch cushions.
Every time I noticed it, my stomach betrayed me.
Pathetic.
I slammed a cabinet shut harder than necessary.
My phone buzzed across the counter.
Unknown number.
My pulse reacted instantly before my brain could catch up.
Annoying.
I answered carefully. “Hello?”
Silence.
Then breathing.
Not Damien.
Cold prickles crawled up my spine.
“Lena Hart,” a male voice said softly.
Every instinct in my body sharpened.
“Who is this?”
A low chuckle answered me.
“You
