-Sloane Pierce:
I had already knocked. The sound of my knuckles against the heavy wood still lingered in my ears when I heard her voice on the other side.
"Come in."
Roxy Delgado.
I pulled in a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and pushed the door open.
The room wasn't a room. It was a palace. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, adorned with ornate molding and a chandelier that glittered with fractured light. A wall of windows spilled sunshine over polished hardwood floors, illuminating a sitting area with velvet chairs and gilded tables. And then there was the bed—a massive four-poster, dressed in silk sheets and enough pillows to drown in.
And in the middle of all of that, she lounged.
Roxy sat propped against pillows, a vision of contradictions: casted leg stretched out before her, head wrapped with a thin bandage, bruises blooming over her skin like dark blossoms… yet she looked nothing like a patient. She looked like a queen on her throne.
