Theresa.
The morning sun flooded through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the estate library, painting the dark oak tables and plush velvet armchairs in bright, golden light.
I leaned back into the soft cushions of a massive leather chair, resting a steaming mug of chamomile tea on the side table beside a stack of old architecture journals. For the first time in what felt like years, my mind was entirely quiet. There were no heart monitors beeping in my ears, no medical staff checking my vitals every twenty minutes, and no lingering dread about Bella or Alex hanging over my head.
The poison was gone, my lungs expanded easily with every slow breath, and the peaceful warmth of the room wrapped around me like a blanket.
I turned a page of the journal, admiring an old sketch of stone archways, when a soft, polite knocking echoed from the heavy double doors at the entrance of the library.
