I woke to a skull-splitting pulse and a mouth that tasted like last night’s wine had staged a coup. Sun sliced through the curtains in clean, judgmental lines.
When I squeezed my eyes shut, a fragment of memory made me huff a laugh despite the ache. Sophie, immaculate as ever, telling Tom to f**k off. The look on his face. The rare curve of Sophie’s mouth.
The laugh died fast. Behind it, I felt the echo of Ryan’s fury, cold, coiled, patient. The kind that didn’t explode in public because it preferred to detonate in private.
I rolled out of bed, every movement careful, my stomach lurching at the shift. Jeans, a soft white tee, hair tugged into a ponytail. No armor, no silk. Sneakers instead of stilettos. In a house like this, the outfit read like dissent.
My fingers shook as I tied the
