PAIGE
The solid thud of the guest room door closing felt like dropping a final, heavy barricade. For a single, blessed second, there was silence. True silence. No gala noise, no camera flashes, no low, mocking voice.
Then, the exhaustion hit me like a physical wave.
It wasn't just tiredness. It was a full-body collapse. The adrenaline that had been screaming through my veins for hours—through the confrontation with my parents, the sting of my mother's nails, the intensity in Reomen's eyes in the Bentley—vanished, leaving me hollowed out and shaking.
I didn't even make it to the ensuite bathroom. The idea of wrestling myself out of the intricate Valentino gown, of running a bath in the deep, freestanding Kaldewei tub I knew was in there, felt as impossible as climbing a mountain.
My legs gave out. I collapsed sideways onto the bed, the impossibly soft Frette linens swallowing me whole.
