The burn spread through my thighs like fire.
I hissed through my teeth as I pressed into the stretch, every muscle protesting, trembling under its own weight.
It had been a week since the gala. Seven days of silence, discipline, and too many thoughts I didn’t want to name.
The floor of the Pilates studio smelled faintly of disinfectant and rubber mats, and the air carried that tang of effort, sweat, chalk, and perfume colliding.
Clara walked between the rows, her voice calm but firm.
“Hold it. Shoulders down. Yes, like that, Amber.”
I grit my teeth and pushed deeper into the pose, my core screaming.
The heat licked up my ribs, sharp and demanding.
But it was mine.
Pain chosen.
Pain that didn’t belong to Carter, or a contract, or anyone else.
The papers sat unsigned somewhere in
