IMOGEN'S POV
I woke before sunrise. The guest room felt smaller in the early morning light filtering through those heavy curtains. My mouth tasted like stale alcohol and regret, though neither was real. The performance from yesterday clung to me like expensive perfume.
The house was silent. I slipped downstairs barefoot, my feet remembering the way to the kitchen even after all these months away. The marble floors were cold against my skin. Good. I needed to feel something real after yesterday's elaborate theater.
I opened the massive stainless steel refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. The cold liquid washed away the manufactured taste of my fake hangover. I stood there drinking and planning, watching the sun creep across the granite countertops.
