SATURDAY MORNING began deceptively ordinary.
Mailah stirred awake to the sound of faint birdsong beyond the glass panes, her limbs wrapped loosely in the cool sheets of her impossibly large bed.
For a moment, she allowed herself the fragile illusion of normalcy—the sunlight streaking through sheer curtains, the faint hum of life somewhere in the manor, the warmth of knowing she wasn't alone anymore.
Her heart betrayed her, beating with that traitorous flutter whenever she thought of him.
Grayson.
Sunlight spilled faintly across the edge of the curtains. She stretched, the sheets cool against her skin, and for a fleeting moment she wondered if Grayson might already be at breakfast.
He always kept to his own chambers—his presence in hers was never casual, never expected—and that boundary had become another unspoken rhythm of their strange cohabitation.
