The following morning, the sunlight slipped quietly through the half-drawn curtains, brushing across the pale skin of the woman curled beneath the blanket.
Sofia stirred, her lashes fluttering as consciousness tugged her awake. But the moment she opened her eyes, the world tilted sharply. The room spun, her stomach churned, and a wave of nausea surged through her chest like a storm.
She barely made it to the sink.
Gripping the cold porcelain with trembling hands, she vomited until there was nothing left but air and quiet heaving. Her forehead rested against her arm, her breaths shallow and uneven.
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes—not from pain, but exhaustion.
She wiped her mouth shakily and forced herself to breathe.
She had planned to wake up early. To cook breakfast. To try again.
Even after everything Adam said last night—even after hearing him confess he never stopped loving Natalia—she had clung to one truth.
He didn't tell her to leave.
