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The next morning, sunlight streamed softly through the thin white curtains, brushing across Elena's face. She stirred, her lashes fluttering open slowly.
Her eyes scanned the room — her room — and confusion hit her all at once. How did I get here? The last thing she remembered was lying on the couch in the living room, waiting for Damian.
She sat up, running her fingers through her tangled hair, a faint blush creeping onto her cheeks. Did he… carry me here? The thought alone made her heart skip.
Pushing the blanket aside, she got up and stretched, still feeling a warmth she couldn't quite explain. After a quick shower, she dressed in something simple and went downstairs.
The mansion was quiet — too quiet. She looked around, hoping to see Damian somewhere, maybe reading the newspaper like he sometimes did, or on a call, his deep voice echoing across the room.
But he wasn't there.
