Killian's bedroom was nothing like Isla expected.
She'd imagined cold perfection. Black and white and chrome like the rest of the house. A space as controlled and sterile as the man himself.
But this—this was different.
The room was dark, yes. Navy walls instead of white. Hardwood floors covered with thick rugs. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, but heavy curtains pulled halfway across, creating shadows and privacy. A massive bed—king-sized, maybe bigger—with charcoal linens that looked soft enough to drown in.
But what caught her attention were the personal touches.
Books. Actual books stacked on the nightstand and a nearby chair. Not decorative volumes but worn paperbacks with cracked spines, evidence of being read and re-read.
A photo frame on the dresser, turned face-down like Killian couldn't bear to look at whatever memory it held.
