–Damon–
The bed was cold. Too cold. I reached out for my wife, expecting the warmth of her body, the curve of her form pressed into the mattress beside me—but there was nothing. Just empty sheets that had gone cold long ago.
I sat up, a low curse rolling off my tongue, the room swimming with that eerie quiet that makes the night feel like a damn ghost town. My mind prickled—pins and needles, agitation crawling up my spine.
"Livana?" My voice cut through the room, deep and commanding, but all I got in return was the faint hum of the bladeless fan.
She always set the room on a timer—the air conditioning would go off at three in the morning, and I must've woken because of it. The curtains shifted like restless spirits in the early dawn.
I swung my legs off the bed, bare and restless as usual, and reached for my robe. Her scent still lingered faintly on the pillows. But the laundry basket already held her negligee. That meant she left deliberately.
