Waylon’s villa was both grand and classical, with every detail meticulously crafted. Walking through it felt like stepping into a castle, and Waylon was the castle’s lord.
He had thoughtfully arranged baths and fresh clothes for me and my staff, reassuring us that everything in the villa was at our disposal.
I sank into the warm bath, the water enveloping me as a subtle rose scent filled the air, easing the tension that had been coiled in my mind.
After the bath, I slipped into the clothes Waylon had prepared and stepped out of the bathroom.
Waylon was sitting in the lounge, swirling a tall glass of red liquid in his hand. Moonlight filtered through the window, casting a glow on his golden hair, giving him the appearance of an exquisite painting.
Seeing me, he downed the drink in
