Aurora's POV
Before she could pull the door shut, I grabbed the heavy handle. I glared at her, my eyes searching hers for a sign of guilt. She flinched, refusing to meet my gaze, and hurried away down the hall.
I stepped inside and slammed the door behind me, ready to demand an explanation.
The first thing I noticed wasn't Oliver, but the mess. A porcelain teacup lay shattered on the hardwood floor, dark liquid soaking into the expensive rug. Then I saw him. Oliver was on the bed, tucked deeply under the heavy duvet. He looked… drained.
"I saw a maid coming out of your room," I snapped, my voice laced with the bitterness of my suspicion.
He didn't jump. He didn't even look surprised. He just lay there, his face pale and his eyes shadowed. He looked weak, and for some reason, that triggered me even more. Did she wear him out that much?
"Do you care to explain why she was in here?" I demanded, my arms folded tightly across my chest.
