Isla woke to silence.
For a disorienting moment, she forgot where she was. The bed was too soft, the sheets too expensive, the room too big. Then memory crashed back—the contract, the wedding, the fortress, Killian's confession that he didn't trust himself near her.
She was Mrs. Archer now.
Trapped in a beautiful cage with a husband who wanted her but wouldn't touch her.
Morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, painting everything in shades of gray and white. Her wedding dress hung on the back of the closet door where she'd left it last night, a ghost of white silk mocking her.
She'd been too exhausted to explore the closet full of clothes Killian had bought for her. Too overwhelmed to do anything except collapse into bed still wearing her slip, staring at the ceiling until sleep finally dragged her under sometime around three a.m.
Now it was—she checked her phone—seven-fifteen.
And there was something white on the floor near her door.
