Isla couldn't sleep.
She'd tried. God, she'd tried.
But every time she closed her eyes, she heard Killian's voice: I want the body gone by sunrise.
And then she'd be wide awake again, staring at the ceiling, her mind spinning with questions she knew better than to ask.
At one-forty-seven a.m., she gave up.
The house was silent. No staff at this hour. No Killian—he'd texted around eleven that he'd be late, not to wait up, as if she'd been planning to wait for a husband who didn't want her anyway.
Isla threw off the covers and padded to her door in bare feet.
The hallway was dark except for subtle floor lighting that guided the way without being harsh. More of that expensive architectural design, making even the nighttime feel controlled and deliberate.
She told herself she was just exploring.
Getting familiar with her new home.
Definitely not looking for answers to questions she wasn't supposed to ask.
The third floor—Killian's private wing—was off-limits.
