That morning sun tried its best, slanting all gold and pretty through those ridiculous estate windows, but inside Selene? Nah. Still dark. Shadows, memories, bruises that just wouldn’t quit. She couldn’t get Eddy out of her head—him popping back into her life, clutching her like he could glue the past together, and her, stubborn as hell, refusing to let herself crumble.
She tried to focus, really tried. That masquerade gala wasn’t going to plan itself. But then there it was—a stupid envelope just sitting on the table, cream-colored and basically humming with bad vibes. The handwriting? Instantly familiar.
Frida. Yeah, that Frida. The name hit Selene like she’d just chugged a cocktail of razor blades. Remember all those late-night whispers? The kind of laughs that make you think nothing
