ELENA

The sunlight streaming through the partly opened curtains pulled me from sleep. I squinted against the brightness—rubbing my eyes as my vision slowly adjusted—and for a brief, disorienting moment, I thought I was back in my own room at home. But as I sat up, yawning and stretching, reality set in.

I wasn’t home. I was in Dominic Moretti’s mansion.

The events of the previous night came rushing back—the suffocating limo ride, the overwhelming grandeur of his mansion, and the ...