Layla walked into her assigned room. The woman that had brought her here from the hospital had left saying she had a call to make.
The room was silent.
She let herself relax on the soft bed, feeling the silk sheets under her palm – her thin fingers gripping the soft blanket like it might disappear if she loosened her hold. The sheets smelled faintly of lavender and something else—clean linen, maybe. Too clean. Too peaceful. It unsettled her. The place screamed luxury – not just her room, but the entire house.
What kind of person had rescued her and why?
The thoughts swirled in her mind a whirlpool. Her brows furrowed as she chewed on her lower lip. The only person who could answer her question was the woman that brought her here. Or at least the man that rescued her.
Her eyes darted across the room. Marble floors, a writing desk by the window, a closet in the corner. No locks on the door. No chains on the walls. No guards stationed just beyond the threshold.
