I lie on the guest room bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan above me. Its slow rotation matches the hazy rhythm inside my head.
The alcohol is mostly out of my system now—no more nausea, no more throbbing headache. Just a dull dizziness lingering like a shadow, refusing to leave completely. But even that isn't my biggest concern. No.
It's my thoughts. Because my head—God, my head—is too loud. Too full.
I try to breathe slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth. The way I used to do when I had to sit in court. When the cameras were flashing and the press waited outside. When my palms were slick with sweat inside a tailored blazer.
But it's harder now. Because tonight, something cracked open. Something I didn't even know I was guarding.
Noah knew. He knew. All this time.
My chest rises and falls. The blanket twisted around my legs is warm, but I'm cold underneath. Like someone peeled back my skin and left my nerves bare.
