The morning sun sliced through the thick hotel drapes like it had a personal vendetta, spilling harsh gold light over the tangled sheets of Isabella Voss's penthouse suite. It illuminated everything Henry Jackson wished he could blur out—the clothes scattered across the floor, the faint heat still clinging to the bed, the intoxicating scent of last night's recklessness lingering like smoke after a fire.
Henry sat at the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His tall frame looked folded in on itself, as if he were trying to shrink out of existence. His temples throbbed with every heartbeat, and he let out a shaky breath, rubbing his face as if he could scrub away the memories along with the hangover. The regret in his stomach twisted so sharply it almost hurt.
