A soft knock at the door stirred Ryleigh from her thoughts.
She sat up straighter on the edge of the bed, clutching the letter Damien had left. Her fingers had traced his signature so many times she could practically feel the curve of his pen strokes imprinted into her skin. The letter now lay beside her, partially crumpled, like her heart.
The knock came again—gentle, but persistent.
Ryleigh padded across the cool marble floor and opened the door.
“Natalia,” she breathed, surprised.
Natalia stood in the doorway holding a silver tray piled with breakfast: flaky croissants, scrambled eggs, sizzling bacon, and a tall glass of orange juice that sparkled in the morning light. Her curls were pinned up, but a few rebellious tendrils had escaped, softening her face. She wore her usual apron
