Seraphina's Point Of View
A dull, throbbing ache struck the center of my forehead before I could even pry my eyelids open. The pain pulsed with heavy, rhythmic intensity, like a tiny hammer slamming relentlessly against the inside of my skull, each beat sending fresh waves of nausea through me.
"Ow," I muttered, my voice emerging completely wrecked and dry as paper. Even that single syllable scraped against my raw throat.
I winced, forcing my eyes open against a blur of soft, yellow light. The ceiling wasn't the concrete panels of the parking garage, nor was it the white acoustic tiles of my office. Instead, high vaulted wood stretched above me, adorned with heavy, expensive molding that immediately made me feel out of place.
The craftsmanship was exquisite… hand-carved beams that probably cost more than my annual salary. Everything about this room screamed wealth I hadn't earned, luxury I'd spent years refusing to accept as mine by birthright.
