Monday arrived, a fresh start to a new week, but Ophelia couldn't escape the ghosts of the past. The memory of Darren's kiss—possessive, hungry, and utterly infuriating—haunted her. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his thumb on her lip, the taste of his mouth, and the shiver of her own body's betrayal. It was a brand on her soul, a constant, unwanted reminder of just how devastatingly good he was at what he did.
She walked into the dining room, her usual armor of sarcasm already in place, bracing herself for their morning ritual of psychological warfare. But the sight of him stopped her dead in her tracks.
He was standing by the large windows, a cup of coffee in his hand, morning light painting him in shades of gold and quiet danger. And he was wearing the gray blazer—the one she had bought for him.
