Aria's POV
"She smiled at me today, Damon," I said softly, brushing the rim of my coffee cup. "Like—really smiled. Not drugged or tired. Just Lila. My Lila.
Her eyes lit up like they used to, and for a moment, it felt like we'd outrun the darkness. Like hope was finally winning."
Damon stood across the open-plan penthouse kitchen, arms folded, tie undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Tension clung to him like a second skin, visible in the tight line of his jaw and the stiffness in his stance.
Despite the warm morning light filtering through the glass walls, his eyes were shadowed. His suit jacket was carelessly slung over one of the barstools, and beside it sat a half-drunk glass of scotch—evidence that he hadn't slept, not really. Not peacefully.
"That's the best news I've heard in days," he murmured, voice rough with exhaustion.
