Kiara’s POV
I woke before dawn, the penthouse silent except for the faint hum of the city far below. Sleep had abandoned me hours ago, leaving my thoughts restless and sharpened like knives. My body curled beneath the covers, yet my mind ran circles, replaying every moment from the past twenty-four hours. The intrusion. The audacity. Isabella was standing in Damon’s hospital room, calm, composed, as if she belonged there.
Belonged. That word burned on my tongue. Belonged. Not me. Never me.
I traced my fingers along the cool edge of the glass coffee table. My reflection stared back at me from the windowpane, pale in the early light. I pressed my palm against the glass and imagined it was his—Damon’s. The one that had once been mine to hold, mine to command, mine to love without contest.
