The note was thin, nearly translucent from the rain that must've soaked through the door's edges. Aurora's fingers trembled as she held it, reading the words over and over again:
"You were never his."
No name. No signature. Just five words, written in smudged, hurried strokes. The handwriting was sharp. Masculine. And it sent a cold shiver down her spine.
She glanced toward the door. Locked.
Then to Rafael, asleep beside her.
He looked peaceful in the dark, chest rising and falling steadily, bare skin warm under the sheets. One arm was stretched over where she had just been lying. Possessive, even in sleep.
She folded the note and slipped it into the nightstand drawer, heart pounding.
Had someone been inside?
Was this a warning? A threat?
Or worse… a truth?
—
Morning came harsh and bright. Rafael's mood was stormy the moment he opened his eyes. As if he sensed something had changed.
"You didn't sleep," he muttered, tracing her shoulder with his thumb.
