The sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting golden stripes across the marble floor of Rafael's penthouse suite.
Aurora blinked into the light, her limbs tangled in the silk sheets that still smelled like him. Like sex and danger. Like heartbreak.
For a second, she reached beside her — only to find the space cold and empty.
He hadn't come back.
Her throat tightened.
Then she saw it — the envelope.
It sat neatly on the nightstand. Cream-colored. Heavy. Her name written in Rafael's ink-black scrawl.
Hands trembling, she reached for it.
Inside were two tickets.
One, clipped to a folded note marked:
"Milan. 10 a.m. Car will wait. Your father is there."
The other, identical in shape, but with no writing at all — just a key card taped to it.
His room. His bed. Him.
Her pulse roared in her ears. Her body remembered last night too well — the way he'd dropped to his knees for her, the way he'd whispered against her skin like she belonged to him.
And yet…
