AYLA
I woke up to sunlight pouring in from the curtains and the faint smell of coffee and cardamom. For five minutes, I lay still on the bed, my mind totally disoriented.
Last night hadn't gone exactly as planned.
But did anything ever go as planned with the Morettis?
The bed felt comfortable, the room too large and warm.
The paint on the wall was black.
Who used black for a bedroom?
My eyes roamed the room carefully, then back to the bed.
I pulled the white bedsheet covering the rest of my body—I was still in the same dress I'd worn to the gala. My eyes glanced further; my shoes were gone.
I sat up immediately, my hair a tangled mess.
Arthuro.
Shit.
I needed to call Millie. Where the hell was my bag?
I got up, washed my face, finger-combed my hair backward, then stepped out of the room.
I walked barefoot, searching for Cassian Moretti, my hair still a mess. My eyelids still had some eyeshadow on, and the mascara clung to my lashes like an obsessive ex.
