Seraphina's Point Of View
When Diego looked at me with those arched brows, his dark eyes gleaming with theatrical surprise as he asked if I knew him, I couldn't help the dry, bitter scoff that ripped out of my chest. The audacity of the question alone made my stomach turn.
As if fifteen years could erase what he'd carved into my memory. As if I could ever forget the shape of his face in shadow, lit only by headlights outside our window. As if I could ever scrub away the sound of his voice from the walls of my own skull, no matter how far I ran or how many years I let pass.
Some wounds don't heal so much as scar over, waiting for the right pressure to split them open again, and Diego's voice alone was enough to tear mine wide.
"Who doesn't know Diego back home?" I snapped, my knuckles turning white as I gripped my purse strap. "You act like your reputation doesn't precede you everywhere you crawl, Diego."
