Chapter 28.
The scent of sandalwood and clean linen was the first thing Layla registered. Not the faint mildew of her apartment air conditioner, or the lingering ghost of Mark's cologne on a forgotten scarf. This was foreign, crisp, expensive. She opened her eyes. The ceiling was high, smooth, and the color of fresh cream. Morning light, soft and golden, streamed through a wall of windows she hadn't noticed last night, filtered through the delicate leaves of a wisteria vine growing outside. The bed was a vast, white island, and for a disorienting moment, she was unmoored. Then memory crashed back in—the splintering wood, Mark's body, the stairwell, the cold rage in Kieran's eyes, the absolute safety of his arms. She sat up, her body protesting. A dull ache throbbed at her temple where the bandage wa
- Writer
