Isla's POV
I didn't need a mirror to know my eyes were swollen.
I'd dreamed of Theo—not the Theo who f****d his secretary on mahogany desks, but the one from before. The one who'd held my hand through a twelve-hour flight to Tokyo because I was afraid of turbulence. The one who'd learned to make my grandmother's apple pie recipe, badly, because I'd mentioned missing it once.
That Theo had felt so real in the dream that waking up was like losing him twice.
I lay in bed, staring at the water-stained ceiling of my studio apartment.
I didn't regret it.
But between sleeping and waking, a question had lodged itself in my chest like a splinter: What makes a person unrecognizable?
I still didn't have an answer.
The Oceanview Inn was buzzing when I arrived at four-thirty.
Not the usual
