Amara walked across the thick carpet that muffled the sound of her footsteps. In the corner of the room, a massive floor-to-ceiling window revealed the twinkling lights of Germany, looking like a spill of jewels scattered over a black cloth.
She tossed her phone onto the leather sofa in the corner. On the polished wooden desk sat two sealed bottles of mineral water and a room service menu she had no desire to touch.
Her stomach churned—not from hunger, but because Kaisar's cold words at the hospital were still ringing in her ears.
The king-sized bed with its crisp white sheets, where Vero lay, looked incredibly comfortable. But for Amara, it was merely a place where she would remain awake all night, staring at the empty ceiling.
Amara hugged her knees, occasionally wiping away the damp tears that tracked down her cheeks. Her heart wouldn't stop aching, even though she and Kaisar were just friends. That's right… they were just friends.
Why does it hurt this much?
