The morning sun was not gentle. It did not creep into the room; it invaded.
It streamed through the gap in the heavy velvet curtains of the Blue Guest Suite, hitting Delaney Kingsley squarely in the face. It was bright, cheerful, and entirely unwelcome.
Delaney groaned as she woke up.
She tried to turn over, to bury her face in the pillow and pretend the day had not started, but her body betrayed her. Her limbs felt heavy, like they were filled with sand. Her head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache that sat right behind her eyes.
She sat up slowly. The room spun for a second before settling.
She touched her head, her fingers massaging her temples. A headache was definitely starting to form. It wasn't the sharp pain of illness, but the heavy, dragging weight of emotional exhaustion.
"That same old memory," she whispered.
Her voice was raspy. Her throat felt dry, as if she had been screaming in her sleep.
