The recovery suite breathed with afternoon light filtered through gauze curtains, painting everything in shades of amber and possibility. Milly Flores sat cross-legged on a bed that smelled of lavender and good intentions, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that might as well have been colored water for all the comfort it brought.
Sobriety tasted like sawdust and regret.
Through the window, the compound sprawled in organized chaos—children's voices carried on wind that smelled of coming rain, construction crews hammering new futures into old foundations. Seven months she'd floated in ice while the world rebuilt itself without her. Now she was awake, pregnant, and terrifyingly sober in a place that felt like someone else's salvation.
The door opened without a knock. Daisy Sawyer entere
