PAIGE
The sun was a brutal, unforgiving spotlight slicing through the gaps in my blinds. I squinted, my head throbbing with a dull, persistent rhythm that felt like a punishment for the thoughts that had haunted my sleep.
When I finally managed to focus on the clock, it read noon. Noon. I'd spent half the day unconscious, hiding from the world. Pathetic.
I dragged myself out of bed, the memory of last night's gala clinging to me like a bad smell. The headache was a physical anchor to my misery.
I dry-swallowed two painkillers, the bitter chalkiness coating my throat, and reached for my laptop. My sanctuary. My weapon.
The world outside could fall apart, but in here, with spreadsheets and strategic documents, I was in control. My plans weren't going to work themselves.
The connections I'd made last night—Suzume's offered introductions, the tentative interest from the Luxembourg fund—were just raw potential.
