Morning came not with warmth, but with a pale, dispassionate light that bled slowly into the corners of Christopher Cross's room.
The air smelled faintly of rain and smoke — the remnants of the storm that had raged through the night.
Serena stirred, caught in that fragile moment between sleep and memory.
Her body knew before her mind did. The hush of the room, the unfamiliar softness beneath her, the scent that clung to the pillow — all of it carried the echo of what she could no longer take back.
For a brief, treacherous moment, she thought of nothing.
Then, memory returned like a tide.
Christopher's voice, his hands, the way he'd said her name — low, deliberate, a command disguised as a plea.
And then the silence afterward.
She opened her eyes. The world looked different in morning light — gentler, perhaps, but also mercilessly clear.
Her dress had been laid across a nearby chair, pressed and arranged with meticulous care. The folded fabric mocked her.
