The room they gave her was almost insulting in its civility.
She looked around the room and saw a bed with clean sheets, a chair, a small table, and even a bathroom with a door that locked from the inside. She had lived in foster homes where there was ten people to a single bathroom and she shared a room with four or five other girls.
Seriously, this was a spa compared to that.
Mind you, there were a few things that dropped her five star rating down significantly.
For example, there was no windows and only a single overhead light controlled by a switch outside her reach. Not to mention, the walls were thick enough that she couldn't hear much beyond muffled footsteps and the occasional slam of a distant door.
Comfortable, Tommaso had said. And he wasn't wrong.
But a gilded cage was still a cage.
Mila sat on the edge of the bed, her hands resting in her lap, and tried to calculate how long she'd been here.
The concussion made it harder than it should have been.
