The morning after was never meant to feel like this.
Damian sat at the edge of their bed, shirtless, Lydia’s nail marks branded on his skin — faint bruises that should have felt like victories. But all he felt was confusion. Lydia had said nothing when she left for work, only a kiss on his forehead that felt more like a silent warning than affection.
His phone buzzed.
Ava: “Suite 701. Come hungry.”
Damian clenched his jaw. After last night, this wasn’t a coincidence. He could feel it — the web closing in. He got up, dressed, but with every button, the weight of not knowing grew heavier. Whatever Lydia and Ava were weaving, he was no longer the puppeteer.
Continental Hotel’s lobby was polished to perfection. Elegant. Discreet. The very image of the secrets it harbored.
Damian’s steps
