The morning light poured softly on Celeste's face. The light was golden and warm as it slipped past the sheer curtains. A breeze stirred them gently, adding a dreamy sway to the penthouse's stillness.
She stirred beneath the sheets, letting out a quiet groan. Her body was sore, her mouth dry, and her head throbbed badly.
She stretched, and then winced immediately. "Ow," she muttered to no one in particular.
Snuggling deeper into the pillow, she buried her face against it. The scent that clung to the fabric was familiar, distinctly masculine—clean soap, a faint trace of sandalwood, and something more.
This was not her pillow.
Celeste blinked vigorously, her mind clawing through fog. She sat up slowly, like a puppet.
Her eyes had a hard time adjusting to the unfamiliar space. The bed was enormous, with dark navy sheets wrapped around her legs and a headboard that looked imported and expensive. A minimalist aesthetic filled the space, yet everything screamed wealth.
