The first thing I felt was light.
Harsh, unapologetic light knifing through the floor-to-ceiling windows and straight into my skull. I groaned, rolling onto my back and throwing an arm over my face as a dull ache throbbed behind my eyes. The second thing I felt was… wrongness. Not danger. Not fear. Just the quiet, disorienting knowledge that this wasn’t my bed. The sheets were too smooth. The mattress too perfect. The pillows smelled like clean soap and something darker, something expensive and masculine that clung to the air like a signature.
I cracked one eye open. Gray walls. Black sheets. A low, sleek dresser. Books arranged in disciplined lines instead of cozy stacks. A single piece of art on the wall — bold, abstract, deliberate. The city lay behind the glass in careful angles, sky
