Layla slammed her bedroom door so hard the entire wall trembled. The framed portrait above her vanity tilted sideways, her smiling face in the photo now crooked—just like the expression twisting her features.
She hurled herself onto the unmade bed. The silk quilt bunched beneath her, pillows scattering to the floor. The room still carried the faint scent of expensive perfume and rose-scented candles, but none of it soothed the humiliation burning in her chest.
She waited.
Surely one of them would come.
Logan would knock first—firm, impatient, but worried.
Lucas would follow—soft voice, gentle coaxing.
That was how it always worked.
She counted the seconds in her head, staring at the ceiling chandelier as if willing footsteps to echo up the stairs.
Two minutes.
Five minutes.
Nothing.
The silence stretched.
Her jaw tightened.
