Mirella’s POV

I lay frozen in the suite, staring at the ceiling, telling myself I would sleep but my heart refused to slow down. The memory of his hands on me, the way he had searched my face for permission I didn’t know how to give, kept replaying. Part of me felt relieved; another part felt guilty.

I turned onto my back, pulling the duvet closer. My thoughts whirled: where was he? Was he angry? The thought made my throat tighten.

Eventually, I pushed myself off the bed and stepped ...